The Ghost and Mrs Mills
by cynicsquest
Summary: What happens when widowed Isabelle French Mills seeks a fresh start in a beautiful Victorian house in a little coastal town, only to discover it's still occupied by it's former owner? Can true love exist between two souls on either side of life and death? An AU based on "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir."
1. Chapter 1

I own neither Once Upon a Time nor The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. I just believe that beautiful stories should be told.

**Prologue**

**June, 2012**

Robert Gold was a lonely man.

He had moved to Storybrooke, Maine some ten years ago, leaving his wreck of a life in Glasgow behind and looking for a fresh start. He had been fortunate in acquiring a few lucrative properties, greatly improving his finances, even if his strict business senses hadn't endeared him to any of his fellow townsmen. Not that making friends had ever been his goal.

He was generally content with the status quo. Approaching forty-five, he had managed to survive a tumultuous marriage, a bitter divorce, a long-distance relationship with his son, bankruptcy, a crippling auto accident, and a well-timed move to a new country. He had earned degrees in Law and Business, and had developed a knack for purchasing lucrative properties. His life was settling into a quiet flow of work and the occasional correspondence from his son, newly graduated from an American college and settling into his first job in Boston.

On most days, he opened his pawn shop around eight o-clock, bargained to procure or sell various items, set terms for loans or worked out the details of the few legal matters that came his way, and then he closed the shop around four in the afternoon. The evenings he spent collecting rent or loan payments from various clients. His polite but cold demeanor and no-nonsense reputation caused people to fear him. That suited him, as he was determined that his business succeed without slipping into the murky waters of extensions, sob stories and other nonsense. His routine and reputation meant he was growing beyond financial security to out and out wealth. It also had the effect of making him a very lonely man.

Over the years he had bought several properties, often living in them during a renovation process. He was no slum lord. Each house he had lived in had been brought up to a standard he had set for himself, and he had spared no expense in making each investment sound and esthetically pleasing. He lived in each residence for a few months to a year, moving around in the small town from one neighborhood to another, but none of these places had he ever considered home.

The Victorian manor at the end of Moncton Avenue he acquired five months ago he had intended to be just another purchase. Various members of the same family had occupied it for nearly one hundred years. The family had kept it in beautiful condition, had made a few modernizations over the years, but nothing that altered the original structure of the house. The exterior had been painted to suit various tastes throughout the years, but a little research had led him to the original colors, and he had paid handsomely to have the home restored to its former glory. Although he knew a few townsmen snickered about the "Beast of Storybrooke" residing in a "pink doll house," he was genuinely pleased that the house was authentic.

He had kept the furnishings that had come with the property, all quality period pieces that would have taken years to acquire otherwise. Most of the rooms retained the vintage wallpapers from decades before, and he had paid a local seamstress to replicate the dozens of window treatments he had seen in old photographs. The only thing that had truly changed over the hundred years of the home's existence was the conversion of the old gaslights to electricity, definitely a change for the better. The entire venture filled him with a sense of pride, and amazingly, with a feeling of homecoming.

He had learned several months previously that the reclusive elderly woman who owned the house was going to live with one of her children in Florida. Inquiries indicated she had no relatives who were interested in the old family seat, and the word was she wanted the house to retain its vintage purity, a sentiment that matched his own perfectly. He had contacted Thelma Babcock with an offer, and had been met with a polite rejection. Deciding a personal approach may yield better results, he made his way over to the pink manor and knocked on the old, stained glass and panel doors on a snowy day just after Christmas. Within minutes the door was answered by a dignified lady, thin and petite, with more than a few wrinkles, a long, white braid down her back and clad in a blue sweat suit. The warm air from the interior washed over him, carrying with it the scent of roses to mingle with the frigid salt sea air about him. He found himself drawn into the old woman's fathomless blue eyes and after a moment, he realized she was staring at him, holding her breath. Suddenly concerned, he reached out and offered his hand.

"Are you alright?"

She continued staring for a moment longer, and then, accepting his hand, laughed depreciatingly. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry. You reminded me of someone."

Hoping that reminder was a good thing, he smiled. "I'm Robert Gold. I came to inquire about the house."

"Robert Gold…Gold," she whispered, cupping his hand inside of her own withered hands. She peered closely into his brown eyes, let her own roam over his face for just a moment, and then smiled. "Yes, Mr. Gold, of course you have. Would you like to come in?"

"Yes, please."

Thelma stood back from the door and he limped in, wiping his feet on the mat in front of the door. Once inside, the old woman steered him past the parlor and into the kitchen, explaining she had put the kettle on and needed to tend it. "Besides," she said, "it's lovely to have tea in a warm kitchen when it's beastly outside."

If having someone genuinely smile at him was a rarity in Gold's life, being invited to tea in someone's kitchen was unheard of. A bit out of his element, he quietly followed the small woman into the depths of the old house. The kettle had just begun to whistle, and she chatted with him about mundane things in the town below while she prepared tea in a much-used teapot with a floral design on front. Bustling about, she opened a tin of shortbread cookies, selected a few and arranged them on a plate in the center of the tray. She poured two big mugs of tea, taking the liberty of adding sugar and cream to each before placing them beside the cookies. Taking up the repast-laden tray, she led him into the dining room and seated him at the head of a long, oak table. He noted the chair he had been given did not match its eight companions, but was sturdy and comfortable, and it seemed to suit him.

Mrs. Babcock took a chair immediately to his right. She placed a steaming mug in front of him and pushed the plate of cookies over to him, waited until he reluctantly took one, and then settled herself with a sip of her tea. Setting the cup down and nesting its warmth in her hands, she resumed her study of his face. Unused to such scrutiny, and at a loss as to how this tiny woman had managed to gain control over a moment he usually dominated, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Noting his discomfort, the lady lowered her gaze with a soft chuckle. "Forgive me: I didn't mean to stare, it's just that you surprised me." Smiling, he replied, "No matter."

"Well, Mr. Gold, I understand that you're interested in this house."

Ah: a business transaction. Now he was in familiar territory. "Yes, I am. I made a good offer on the property, but you turned it down. I don't think you'll get a better deal."

The old woman reached over and patted his hand as she would a child. "Mr. Gold, your offer was very fair." Shaking her head she laughed at herself. "This house has been in my family for six generations. There's a lot of history in this old house, a lot of memories for me." She shrugged. "It's hard to let go."

Gold held the woman's gaze and he realized that he understood. "I see," he said. This place, this house, was no commodity to this woman. It was family and history and identity. It was home in a way he had never experienced, probably never would experience. He had come here to talk to a homeowner, to make a better offer and walk away with another deal for his ever-expanding acquisitions. As he peered into the wizened blue eyes that held his, he realized she wasn't selling. He was surprised to find that he lacked the usual ruthless drive to obtain what he wanted over the client's objections. Instead, he relaxed and decided to enjoy the rare moment of receiving another's hospitality. She turned out to be a gifted storyteller, and she unfolded for him the tale of her own family: of her own great-great-grandmother who had purchased the house long ago; of the family's love for the sea and the town; of how her relations were now scattered across the country, and overseas as far as England, Japan and Australia. He caught a certain gleam in her eye when he admitted that he had had a seafaring ancestor long ago, one rumored to have settled somewhere along the eastern seaboard, but of whom little was known.

After finishing his second cup, he thanked her for inviting him in and for her kindness. "Well, then, thank you for the tea. I should be going."

They rose together and turned out of the dining room. Still smiling, Thelma took his arm and slowly turned him to the parlor. "You know, Mr. Gold, you've come all this way: would you care to see the rest of the house?"

"Yes, I would like that very much."

She led him through various rooms on the ground floor, confiding small memories of events that took place here and there, of games played and meals shared, of mishaps and holidays and homecomings. She showed him a few nicks in the wallpaper or miniscule chips in the woodwork, all related to the pleasant doings and few tragedies of a close-knit family now scattered abroad. An ache grew in him that he had no similar experiences: that he had failed to put down roots, that no one shared his lonely life. He realized that his son, now grown, would one day marry and have children. A house like this would be an invitation to spend time with a grandfather, to make new memories that would be shared in this same manner to his own generations. He listened to the old woman weave the tale of her history with uncharacteristic patience, hungry for the connection she described and willing to partake of the crumbs of her experience.

Gold followed her up the wide, dark staircase to the second floor where they were greeted by a long hallway of oak floors and painted doors. A beautiful bathroom equipped with an antique clawfoot tub as well as a modern shower, beautiful tile work and a large vanity occupied the end of the hallway. Two other rooms were guest bedrooms, with old, well cared for bedsteads and dressers, the walls painted in pastel shades with lovely rugs laid out to warm the coldness of the hardwood floors. One room housed a small library with polished floor to ceiling bookshelves and volumes of leather-bound and hard-back books, some of them out of print antiques, others classics and modern novels, some double-shelved. Pointing to a shelf laden with perhaps three dozen well preserved volumes, the widow indicated several tomes her great-great-grandmother had written, offering him the opportunity to read one in the near future. He smiled and thanked her politely, indicated that he would, perhaps, take her up on that sometime.

Thelma led him to the final door. Smiling, she said, "If you please, Mr. Gold, the master bedroom." She swung the door open and led him inside. The room was painted a lovely cream white, a small fireplace of painted brick with a gas fire keeping the room warm in spite of the winter chill outside. The room was rather spacious and a vintage, four-pollster bed with a dresser and a vanity fit comfortably inside without crowding. A lavender coverlet lay upon the bed, neatly made, and great fluffy pillows cased in white satin headed it. Matching curtains were drawn aside, revealing a set of French doors leading to a balcony; the gray clouds outside obscuring what he knew would be a view of the beach. The serenity of the room settled on him from his vantage point near the doorway.

Gold had marginally noticed two oil portraits of a man and a woman hung beside one another over the mantle. Directing his attention on them, he was taken back by the image of the man on the right. Clad in a dark seaman's jacket over a white shirt, and under a captains' hat, his own face, whiskered and somewhat mischievous, stared back at him. That was the likeness of his mouth, his nose, and his own intense brown eyes returning his stare.

The old woman approached him as he gaped at the portrait. She laid a comforting hand on his arm. "Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Gold?"

He turned a skeptical eye toward her and stated flatly, "no, ma'am, I do not."

Thelma looked up at him, her eyes twinkling. "Well, maybe one day one will come around and introduce itself." She gestured to the portrait. "This is Captain Daniel Gold, the builder of this house." Smiling, the widow patted his arm and looked kindly into his astonished eyes. "And, I suppose, a distant grandfather of yours?"

Gold remembered hearing stories of a distant relation who had been a sailor over a hundred years ago. He had left his family behind in Scotland to sail the sea lanes, disappearing in obscurity and rumored to have settled somewhere along the eastern coastline of America. He hadn't thought of these stories since his boyhood, and never in his wildest dreams did he ever hope to solve the riddle of his fate. "Remarkable!"

Thelma chuckled at his reaction. She had seen the similarities between this man and the familiar old portrait when she had opened the door to him earlier. For a moment, she had thought the old family stories about the captain's ghost haunting the manor once upon a time had come true. She was a romantic soul, half believing she could be the recipient of such a visit. Drawing Gold's attention back to herself, she gestured toward the portrait's companion photograph in introduction. "And this is my great-great grandmother, Isabelle. It was she who bought this house and brought our family here."

Turning his head, his breath caught as he found himself drawn to a pair of unfathomable eyes with the temperament of a clear sky over a sun-dazzled sea. Dreamy lids and thick lashes framed what he knew must be azure eyes, contentment sweetly preserved in the aspect of her gaze. A perfectly turned nose with just a hint of freckles led to an expressive mouth with a demure smile, and there was a slight blush to her porcelain skin. Her rich, thick hair was swept up away from her face, with the long locks flowing freely behind her. The high collar of a silk blouse partially hid her throat, the outline of her shoulders fading into a dark, indistinct background. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He was captivated.

Her image stayed with him as he made his way back to his lonely loft apartment that evening. Over the next few days he thought about the fathomless eyes that seemed to gaze into his inner self, could see in his mind's eye the lovely young woman walking and smiling, could feel the kindness that had been captured on the canvas. He laughed at himself for his infatuation with the ladies portrait, and pushing the whole experience from his mind, he immersed himself in his work.

A week after New Years Day, a medium sized box was delivered to him at his shop. Just inside was a letter, written with a feminine hand in blue ink:

_Dear Mr. Gold, _

_I so enjoyed your visit a few days ago. I can see that you have a fondness and appreciation for the house, and knowing that, I have decided to accept your generous offer for my family home. However, this is contingent on you agreeing to meet the following conditions: _

_First, you will make it your home, and will preserve its beauty. You must agree to spend the rest of your life living in it, and then bequeath it to your heir. _

_Second, you will keep the portraits in the master bedroom hanging where they are. They are a lovely couple and have had many happy years watching over our family and the house they both loved._

_And last, you will gift your future bride with the items you'll find included here. These things belonged to the Captain, and were kept in safekeeping by our family. _

_Consider carefully when you decide to make this deal. Remember, it's forever, dearie!_

_Sincerely,_

_Mrs. Thelma Babcock_

Gold smiled, charmed by the eccentric old lady who dared to demand conditions of the "Beast of Storybrooke." He dug through the packing foam filling the cavity of the box and pulled out the first cup of a beautiful antique tea set. Curiously, the cup was chipped.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for the lovely reviews. For those who are curious, my story is based on the 1947 movie staring Rex Harrison and Gene Tierney, not he television series by the same name. I hope you enjoy my version.

******OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

**Chapter 1: Fighting Ogres**

**Mills Manor, Boston, Massachusetts, May 1912**

"Come now dear, you're still too distraught over losing poor Gerald to think clearly."

The nerves in Isabelle's stomach roiled with irritation. The way her mother-in-law spoke to her pushed her beyond defensiveness. Cora Mills had perfected the delivery of venom and condescension with a benevolent smile and just the perfect tone of indulgent superiority to guarantee the successful manipulation of whomever she spoke with. She had wielded that particular skill often and liberally throughout the nine years Isabelle had known her.

"Mother Mills," she responded tightly, "I can assure you that I have thought this over very thoroughly and intend to go through with my arrangements."

Cora narrowed her eyes at her for a moment before shifting on the settee and turning her attention to the tea service set on the low table before her. In her early fifties, Cora was still as beautiful and poised as any woman half her age. Stiff, black dresses had become her consistent attire since the passing of her husband, Henry, two years ago, and of her son, Isabelle's husband, not eleven months hence. The mourning color suited her and the loss of her husband had not diminished her. She had always held the reigns of power both at home and in the boardroom, and such was her constitution that none had witnessed so much as the shedding of a single tear over her late husband's passing. Some could say they had witnessed a few over the loss of Gerald Gaston Mills, as she had doted on and spoiled her handsome son his entire life. Still, she carried on admirably with an amazing ability to run the family's business interests and the interests of the family with equal agility. Upon seeing resolution in Isabelle's expression, she shifted tactics, deferring the matter to her daughter. "Regina, dear, perhaps you can talk some sense into her."

Regina's dark eyes bore into her sister-in-laws crystal blue eyes. Tall and buxom, Regina's beauty was renowned and rivaled only by her brother's widow. She had been her father's favorite and he had indulged her every whim and fancy her entire life. Spoiled and selfish, her only restraint was the iron grip her mother held on her, as she did with everyone. Regina, as ambitious as her mother but lacking her subtlety, sauntered a bit closer to Isabelle, attempting to intimidate the petite widow with her superior height. Fixing her steady gaze on Isabelle, she said in a clipped tone, "Mother's right, Isabelle. You should stay here where you and Lucy can be taken care of. You've never run a house of your own, and have no income. You'll wind up on the streets in no time."

Isabelle, prepared for this double tactic, stiffened her spine and her resolve. Taking a calming breath, she released the tension she was feeling. _Do the brave thing and bravery will follow._ Smiling, she folded her hands serenely in front of her. "That's not true. I ran my father's house for several years before I married Gerald." Feeling a bit more confident, she continued. "I've met with my solicitor, and can assure you that I have all that I need. I have a small inheritance from my parents, and I have the shares Gerald left me from one of his oil properties." Seeing objections formulating from her in-laws, she took a step forward and continued. "I will leave on the train to Portland, Maine at sunrise tomorrow," straightening her shoulders she leveled a final blow, "and I am taking Martha with me."

At this news, Cora's mask slipped from arrogant indulgence to controlled anger. She settled her teacup in a saucer and placed it on the table. Leveling a stern gaze at her daughter-in-law she said coldly, "I forbid it. Martha is on staff here." The maid was one of the more appreciated assets Isabelle had brought to the household, and she didn't care to lose the competent and talented servant.

Undaunted, Isabelle continued, "Martha came with me from Father's house when I married Gerald. She _will_ go with Lucy and me tomorrow. I've already made arrangements and she's agreed."

Cora continued to fix her gaze on her for a few breaths. She rose from the settee, an indulgent smile forming on her features, and quietly made her way toward the young woman, her movements reminding Isabelle of some predator stalking its prey. Taking Isabelle's hand in her own, she sighed and said, "Well, my dear, I see your mind is made up. Of, course, you understand, you do this without my blessing."

Isabelle understood Cora Mills's unswerving belief in the sanctity of her holdings and stated firmly, "I'm not asking for your blessing, Mother Mills. I'm telling you that it's time for me to move on with my life and make a home for my daughter and myself."

Regina folded her arms and offered a harsh warning. "Yes, Isabelle, we can see that you're set on indulging this little whim of yours. Don't expect to come home with open arms when you fail."

"There, there, Regina," Cora interjected, her indulgent gaze still fixed on Isabelle. She and Regina had their routine perfected to an art form; one antagonistic while the other was supportive. "Of course, Isabelle, you'll be welcomed home whenever you decide."

Relieved at the feigned capitulation, Isabelle smiled and withdrew her hands from her mother-in-law's grip. "Thank you, Mother Mills. I'm sure that won't be necessary." She gathered her skirts and turned from the two women, making her way to the parlor door. Looking back at them she said, "I'll be packing for the rest of the day. I'm taking our clothing and personal effects for now, and I'll send for our furnishings when we've established our residence." That being said, she passed through the doorway and closed the door behind her, leaving her in-laws to contemplate her decision.

For the space of a few moments, neither woman spoke. Regina regarded her mother's silence, waiting for her to make a pronouncement on the new circumstance, keeping her own anger in check. Without her brother's widow and daughter in-house to occupy her mother's attention, her own life was sure to come under more scrutiny. Cora already interfered with her daughter's life as a rule. Regina was used to using Isabelle's' oddities to divert her mother's attention from herself in favor of attempting control over Gerald's obstinate, young wife. The habit of criticizing Isabelle came easily. Turning to Cora, Regina said coldly, "The very idea! You can't let her leave like this, Mother!"

"Of course, I can, darling" she purred. Returning to the settee, she picked up her cup and saucer.

Taking a sip of her cooling tea she grimaced and set the cup down, rejecting it. _Stupid girl, letting her selfish demands ruin a perfectly good brew_. Smiling, she patted the space next to her and waited for her daughter to join her on the settee. "Isabelle just needs a little taste of independence. It will help her let go of the past and demonstrate just how much she needs our help. By the time she runs out of money, she'll be ready to come home, and with a much more cooperative attitude."

Regina was perplexed by her mother's indulgent attitude. "And you approve?"

Cora shook her head and released a amused chuckle. Taking Regina's hand in her own, she fixed her attention toward her daughter's dark eyes. "Regina, darling, you have so much to learn." She patted her hand and, releasing it, gestured toward the steaming teapot. Dutifully, Regina selected a fresh cup and poured her mother more tea, dropped two sugar cubes in it and stirred in a little cream before handing it to her. Taking the cup from her daughter, Cora continued. "Our dear Isabelle has always been a bit of a free-thinker, always trying to forge her own path. You remember how much trouble she was to Gerald? Always wanting to know what was going on, always reading, making suggestions, inquisitive: interfering. Since his passing, she's become even more uncontrollable. In this state, she's not very amenable to our purposes."

A smirk appeared on Regina's full lips. "So, you're cutting her loose so she can fall flat on her face."

"Of course." Gerald may have been as conniving as his mother, but Regina was coming along nicely. "She really isn't much use to us while she's in mourning, any way. By the time she's ready for the social scene again, she'll be back under my roof, broken and pliable, and ready for a nice profitable match. She may be practically penniless, but she's a Mills now, and that name and her rather obvious assets will attract any number of appropriate suitors. Investing in a generous dowry on her behalf should result in a very profitable merger."

"Meaning you'll sell her to the highest bidder."

Cora smiled and inclined her head, acknowledging her daughters' assessment. Yes, Henry's influences were finally wearing off and Regina was learning how to handle herself at last. "Well put, darling." She placed her now empty teacup on the table and smoothed her skirt. "She has an excellent solicitor in Mr. Shelton, and it took time and quite a sum of money to get an ally from his office on the payroll to help us take control of her father's shipping business. We're still profiting from that venture, with Isabelle being totally unaware of our takeover. It's only a matter of time before we can arrange for her shares from Gerald's estate to dry up." It was difficult to remain angry at the little chits' audacity when she did so love unraveling a challenge and calculating a new move. Smiling again, she continued. "Isabelle doesn't have much to bring to the table at the moment, but she can still be an asset to us. Her time away can be used to our advantage."

Cora rose, signaling teatime was over, and Regina, placing her own half-empty cup on the table, rose as well. Cora placed her hand on Regina's elbow and escorted her from the parlor. Passing through the doorway, she smiled benevolently and said, "Besides, darling. It will give us time to concentrate on finding a suitable match for you as well."

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Isabelle swept open the door to her bedroom and fairly sailed inside. She leaned back against the heavy door, a wide smile for the two who waited for her, and said breathlessly, "It's done! We leave in the morning!"

"Oh, thank heavens!" exclaimed her maid, Martha. Ten years her senior, Martha was a stout woman with shock of blonde hair she kept in subjugation beneath a lace cap. She was smart and capable, with the constitution of three men and a peculiar talent for balancing dutiful obedience to her younger mistress with genuine friendship and concern. She'd been taking care of Isabelle since she was six years old, and it would be cold day in Hell when Martha Potts let her charge brave the unknown world without her. Launching from the maid's lap and into her mother's embrace, seven-year-old Lucy squealed with undisguised glee. Isabelle kissed the bonny child with great blue eyes and dancing ringlets, laughing at her enthusiasm. "Alright, darling, time to get busy. Be a good girl and go to your room and start laying your clothes out on the bed."

"I will, Mama." She opened the door and ran across the hall to the nursery to arrange her things.

Knowing they had to pack in a hurry, Isabelle wasted not a moment. Going to her wardrobe, she began pulling out her own clothing, laying dresses and sundries on the bedstead while issuing orders to her friend. "Martha, would you be a dear and ask Martin to bring down my old trunks from the attic? And, maybe a few that won't be missed?" Her teeth tugging on her bottom lip, she took mental inventory of what she remembered from the attic. "I know, have him bring down Gerald's trunks for Lucy. And enough for your belongings, too."

"Of course, Miss." Isabelle smiled. Martha still addressed her as "miss" even though she had been married more than eight years ago. Crossing the room, Martha made her way over to Isabelle and placed a hand on her shoulder, interrupting her movements. "Oh, Miss, you're finally getting out of this house, getting a life of your own!"

Taking a deep breath, Isabelle looked into her friend's face and placed her own hand over Martha's. "Yes," she answered. "It's taken a lot of planning, but we'll finally be on our own. Oh, Martha, we're going into the wide, wide world at last!"

"That we are, Miss. And right well we'll do, too, I expect! The sooner we're shed of this family the better we'll be. There, I said that out loud!"

Isabelle laughed. "Indeed you did! I've said it often enough myself!" Squeezing Martha's hand, she released it and turned back to her task. "We'll have time to pat ourselves on the back when we're on the train in the morning. I'll get my things together and then go to Mr. Shelton's office for whatever legal papers I'll need, and then to the bank. While I'm gone, you can help Lucy pack. I'll pack this afternoon, and make a list of the furniture to be shipped later."

"Yes, Miss." Martha left the room briskly, closing the door behind her. Going to her bureau, Isabelle opened a drawer and retrieved a small, black handbag. As she slammed the now empty drawer closed, a framed miniature of her late husband fell over with a thick thud. Startled, Isabelle picked it up and gazed upon Gerald's striking features. There was no denying he had been a handsome man. Indeed, it had been his handsome face that had won her girlish, 17-year-old heart nine years ago. If she had known then how cold and self-serving a heart lay beneath those sculpted features, she would have shunned his courtship and saved herself much heartache. But then, he had given her Lucy, and she was worth any price life or fate would have demanded of her. She set the photograph back on the bureau and began to turn away, determined to leave it behind as she was leaving her life here behind. Thinking better of it, though, she picked it up and set it among the things she had set aside to pack. She may go her entire life without any desire to look upon his haughty face, but Lucy would want to see her father's likeness some day.

Isabelle spent a restless night of combined excitement and anxiety. After returning from her errands, she and Martha had quickly packed Lucy's trunks with her clothes, books and toys. Lucy followed her back to her room, too excited to play on her own. With her daughter's marginal assistance, Isabelle packed her own clothes into the same trunks she had carried into the Mills Mansion some eight years before as a bride. She used three smaller trunks to pack her precious collection of books into, as well as her shoes and boots. Several hatboxes were neatly stacked next to the trunks, as was a basket to be filled with some food and water from the kitchen just prior to leaving in the morning. The papers from her attorney she carried in a satchel to be kept close at hand, along with three train tickets and money for the conveyance that would take them to their new home, where they would begin their new life.

After a light supper, she made a list of the furniture she had brought to the household when she had married Gerald, as well as a few pieces she had inherited from her late father's estate. These pieces were currently stored in the attic as they had been neither needed nor wanted amongst the Mills furnishings. She made a copy for her mother-in-law, submitting it to her before Cora had retired for the night, and she had penned a copy for her solicitor as well. During this interlude, Cora had kept up the appearance of reluctant support while Regina sulked nearby, both bidding her and Lucy a cold farewell. Having been too busy with her preparations to dine with her in-laws, she shared a late, light supper with Lucy and Martha in the kitchen. Soon afterward, she tucked Lucy into bed for the evening and retired herself, as they were required to rise early to make the 6:00 train the next morning.

Now, bone weary and emotionally overwrought, Isabelle lay sleepless next to Lucy in her own bed. Her daughter seldom slept with her, as her husband's family frowned on it, but tonight was an exception and she welcomed the child's warmth to cuddle up to. Lucy's head rested on her shoulder, and they lay almost nose to nose, the child in repose in quiet contrast to her wakeful mother. She was a perfect blend of her parents' features, with her father's stature and olive coloring and her mother's blue eyes, chestnut colored hair and expressive mouth. She had inherited her father's love of horses and her mother's love of books. Her temperament was calm and stubborn like Isabelle's, and she had, thankfully, not inherited her father's explosive temper. The child was bright and inquisitive, and her gregarious nature was not appreciated among her father's relations.

Isabelle was in constant conflict with her mother-in-law as "Grandmama" continuously interfered with Lucy's rearing, inserting her own influence and vetoing Isabelle's preferences. Isabelle had begun isolating herself and her daughter in their rooms more often of late in an effort to escape Cora's restrictions and allow Lucy to develop her natural inclinations. It was this growing isolation more than any other factor that had set her on the path toward liberation. A few weeks past, Cora had informed her that she had submitted Lucy's name to a boarding school in New York for enrollment in the fall semester. An argument had ensued in which Isabelle vehemently objected to sending her daughter away, while Cora smiled and assured her that given some thought she'd see the advantages Lucy would gain from such an arrangement. Her beautiful Lucy, so full of life and love had made her own life bearable in a home filled from cellar to rafter with plots and political intrigue and Isabelle was determined to free them both from Cora's tyranny.

Isabelle's life hadn't always been so stifled. Her father, Maurice French, had been a seaman in his early years and had learned the shipping trade first hand. He was a large, friendly man with a knack for business and a trustworthy demeanor that forged trust and easy alliances. He learned the shipping lanes and ports of call and had an eye for sellable, quality goods. He had built a fleet of merchant ships and amassed a fortune by the age of forty. Around this time, he married the beautiful Madeline Darcy, the only child of a wealthy merchant and twenty years his junior, merging their fortunes into a lucrative business empire. Maurice purchased a mansion in the wealthy district of Boston and set up house with his young bride. They were very happy together, and wanted only for a family: however, conceiving that family proved difficult due to Madeline's delicate health. Isabelle was born only after many years and several miscarriages.

The French's doted on their daughter, treating her like a princess and lavishing all of their parental hopes on her. They were good parents, balancing generosity and discipline, teaching Isabelle to weigh privilege and hearty work ethics with equal appreciation. Recognizing the child was extremely intelligent, tutors were employed to teach her, and Madeline purchased a library of books for her bright daughter. Isabelle enjoyed the attention of her loving parents and played and grew in the sunshine of her Boston home.

When Isabelle was six years old, Madeline's health began to decline. Maurice hired Martha, a sturdy girl of sixteen who displayed an amazing talent for caring for both mother and child. Martha proved to be a constant and loyal companion, taking charge of Isabelle when Madeline grew tired, arranging her lessons, teaching her how to perform household chores and discussing with her the many fanciful worlds her books introduced her to. She made sure Madeline rested sufficiently to make the best of the time she was able to spend with her daughter, and she instilled in Isabelle how precious the moments they shared together were. Madeline's heart gave out soon after Isabelle's twelfth birthday. It was Martha who held the household together, allowing the widowed father and loving daughter time to grieve, and then begin living again. Within the year, she had encouraged her young lady enough that Isabelle was able to run the household, sharing that burden with her until she had finished her education. Isabelle blossomed into a sensible young woman, caring, capable and courageous and she dreamed of finding true love and family for herself as her parents had. At the age of seventeen, she caught the eye of one Gerald Gaston Mills, the son of a wealthy banker and old money.

She had met Gerald one spring evening while attending a friend's social. He was a tall man with wide shoulders, piercing hazel eyes and features that appeared to have been chiseled by the hand of a master sculptor. He was the handsomest man Isabelle had ever seen in her life. Enraptured, she listened at dinner as he regaled the guests with stories of his travels to far off countries, of hunting big game animals and of frequenting the courts and ports of foreign lands. Isabelle had read of these places, dreamed about traveling, longed to experience what he casually discussed. When he had sought her out among the guests for private conversation, she became infatuated; when he asked her to dance, she fairly swooned with delight; when he stole a sweet kiss in the garden she fell in love. Within a month he had won over her father, had courted her and had asked for her hand. They were married shortly before her eighteenth birthday and honeymooned in New York.

She had thought that living here with her in-laws was to be a temporary arrangement when Gerald first brought her here after their honeymoon. Belle had settled into the room she shared with Gerald for the first few months while he spent long hours at her father's company, learning the business he had inherited as Maurice's son-in-law. Her attempts to integrate into her new family proved both futile and frustrating. Whereas her in-laws had appeared caring and supportive during her short engagement to Gerald, they soon proved to be cold, calculating and controlling. Cora Mills orchestrated the mechanisms of the family's vast financial holdings and held the reigns of the family hearth and home with a tight fist. Her family pedigree boasted settlers who had come over on the Mayflower as well as a strain of nobility who had established themselves before the Revolutionary War. She had come from "old money," and had the air of royalty about her that made Isabelle feel awkward and lacking. Cora's husband, Henry, was a successful banker with business interests extending from the mid-west of the United States to several European countries. At home, he was a weak man whose innate kindness was stifled by his wife, rendering him a mere puppet of her many plots and intrigues.

Gerald's younger sister, Regina, was four years Isabelle's senior. Regina was beautiful, tall with dusky skin, heavy, black hair, full lips and cold, dark eyes. She moved with flawless grace and her presence commanded attention, as if a queen had entered into the sphere of mere mortals. She dominated everyone in her social circle with a poise that made her peers gratefully concede the position to her as her right, a privilege that was only ever eclipsed by her mother. Educated at the finest schools, Regina had little interest in academics, and though she appreciated the privilege her parent's wealth afforded her, she disdained marrying for money, hurtfully offering that her brother had done that duty for family. Her expressed interests revolved around politics, which Cora encouraged. That Regina had remained unmarried at an age beyond that which conventional society thought proper testified to the consensus of mother and daughter that she make a suitable match with a powerful politician, preferably one close enough to Boston to be influenced for the family's benefit.

It hadn't been long after settling his young bride at his family estate that Gerald had gotten her pregnant, and with the pregnancy, had shown his true colors. The deference he had shown her during their courtship gave way to demands that she support his interests exclusively. He forbade her to pursue studies, intimating it was an unfeminine occupation, even though Regina had attended a women's college. Gerald vigorously pursued the manly sports of hunting and riding, often gone for days or weeks traipsing over rugged terrains bagging trophies and bringing home a staggering collection of pelts and antlers, proudly displaying them in his study and bedroom, and at the local club he and Henry were members of. He often criticized Isabelle for her lack of appropriate enthusiasm over his pre-occupation, detailing this as one of many disappointments in her endlessly flawed character. His turn from ideal suitor to demeaning husband was a source of bewilderment and unhappiness to Isabelle as she tried to navigate her place in their marriage. He berated and belittled her, blamed and bullied her until she dare not speak her mind or pursue her own interests. He was backed by his family, his mother constantly "suggesting" she learn her proper role, his sister sneering at her perceived mistakes and his father giving sympathetic looks but intervening not. In time she learned that Gerald Mills, underneath his puffed chest and boastful demeanor, was his mother's boy. Cora held high aspirations for him and had approved of and facilitated his match with the shipping magnate's daughter as a means of securing more money for the family coffers.

He had, at first, assumed his duties in her father's shipping company with enthusiasm. After a few months, he conferred more often with his mother concerning the business, and then began turning his duties over to Francis LaFou, a junior partner at Mr. Shelton's office. Over time, Gerald managed to buy up substantial shares in her father's business, becoming the major stockholder, leaving Maurice with only a fraction of the interests. Maurice had been somewhat concerned, but as Gerald was Isabelle's husband and certainly had her best interests at heart, he did nothing to stop the virtual takeover by the Mills interests. Within three years, Maurice's holdings had dwindled down to a handful of ships and the beautiful house he had raised his daughter in. Investing all of his money in one potentially lucrative investment in a shipment of goods from India, his last remaining fleet floundered in a hurricane; ships, goods and men all lost in the bottom of the Atlantic. Upon hearing the news, Maurice's health broke. He died a month later, leaving his only daughter a small inheritance from the sale of her natal home, some furniture and books, and a wealth of memories of a loving childhood.

Having nothing left to bring into her husband's family, they merely tolerated Isabelle's presence in their household. Gerald lost all interest in her, spending his time away hunting and carousing. His dissipation shocked his sensible wife, who was left to care for their child on her own as he was given to bouts of drinking and perusing the beds of strange women. Two years previously, Isabelle's only ally, Henry, suffered a stroke and died, leaving Cora to manage the family's various business holdings. Thus occupied, Cora failed to notice the toll Gerald's activities were taking on her most favored child until his unexpected death eleven months ago. Having consumed a massive amount of alcohol while on a hunting trip, he had fallen from his horse while pursing a deer and had broken his neck. Cora, rather than comforting her bewildered daughter-in-law, had tightened her control over the young woman and her granddaughter until Isabelle felt she must flee or suffocate.

Sighing, Isabelle drew Lucy closer to her and planted a soft kiss on her sleeping brow. She wanted to clear her mind of these musings of the past and now turned her thoughts to the present at hand. It had taken some work and a few clandestine meetings, but she was about to embark on a new life with her daughter, far from the nightmare she had married into eight years ago. She didn't mind leaving wealth behind her. She understood what hard work and diligence could do to sustain a comfortable life, and she had worked with Mr. Shelton to secure what little Gerald's family had not squeezed out of her father's holdings into her own accounts. On the morrow she would travel far from the Mills influence and unwanted attention to a place where she could build a home for herself and Lucy. She had always dreamed of adventure and this step toward independence seemed like the greatest adventure she could have hoped for. Taking a calming breath, she closed her eyes and drifted into sleep, her thoughts musing on a little town in Maine called Storybrooke.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2: Into the Wide World**

Isabelle roused herself at precisely four o'clock in the morning. Disentangling herself from her daughter, she left the warm sheets and slipped into her blue robe and a pair of slippers. Hastily washing her face, she donned her chemise and stockings, put her hair up in a much-practiced loose bun and dressed in a black traveling dress. After buttoning her shoes, she gently shook her daughter awake. Lucy stretched and yawned, but kept her eyes closed tight and mumbled "it's too early!" before snuggling back down into the soft covers.

Grinning affectionately, Isabelle leaned close to the child's ear and whispered, "Wake up, my little Lucy, we've a train to catch!"

Remembering what was to transpire within a couple of hours; Lucy came wide-awake, filled at once with excitement. "Oh, Mama, I forgot!" She bounded out of bed, little noticing the chill of the room. Isabelle moved to the dressing table, moistened a washcloth and began wiping Lucy's face, removing the remnants of sleep from her excited features. Now anticipating the morning's occupations, Lucy fairly flew into dressing herself, and Isabelle had her hands full buttoning her little blue dress, getting her into her shoes and brushing and braiding her hair. Lucy's enthusiasm excited Isabelle and the two of them giggled together as they made last minute adjustments.

'Shushing' the child as they left her room, Isabelle led Lucy down the hallway, past her in-laws rooms and down the stairs. Entering the quiet kitchen, they found Martha already dressed and preparing the food they'd take on their journey. Under Martin's direction, their trunks had been taken down to the carriage house the night before, loaded onto a wagon by stable hands, and had already been sent ahead to the train station. The Mills light carriage, hitched to a disgruntled quarter horse, now waited outside the kitchen door. After a quick breakfast of tea and soft, buttered biscuits, Isabelle, Martha and Lucy filed inside the carriage and traveled to the train station in high spirits.

Within the hour, the little family was seated together in the dark coach, surrounded by a collection of sleepy passengers headed for the coast of Maine. A stout, aging conductor marched smartly up the isle checking for tickets and relaying information about departure and arrival times. A loud steam whistle blew outside of the car, startling a cry from Lucy, which resulted in amused giggles from Isabelle and Martha. Lurching forward and jarring the passengers, the train's engine began straining, tugging the heavy cars northward and they began passing through the bustling station. Three faces pressed close to the window, curious to see the station as they passed through it, followed by the waking streets strewn about with paper boys, venders, darkened shops, lighted bakeries, horse-drawn carriages and workers emerging from side streets to begin their day. From there, they chugged past homes and neighborhoods both magnificent and modest, then parks and factories, tree-lined wood ways, tributaries and, finally, to open country as the sun continued to illuminate more and more in it's rising. Their path took them up the coastline, past woodland, farmland, bustling towns and quaint villages. Occasionally, they glimpsed the beaches and sandy shorelines of the Atlantic.

The train trip took a little more than two and a half hours, during which time Lucy's bright eyes and excited chatter entertained the young widow and her happy servant. They disembarked at the Portland station, and waited while a hired man loaded their trunks onto a flat buggy for the next leg of their journey. The flat board was a sturdy contraption with two bench seats located at the front of the conveyance. Isabelle and Martha were assisted aboard and settled onto the back bench with Lucy sandwiched between them. The driver pulled himself up to the front bench and, taking the reigns in hand and disengaging the brake, he snapped the reigns with a sharp crack and clucked at the team.

Lurching forward on the broad avenue before the station, they began the last leg of their journey. They traveled North and East from the port town along the coastline of Maine, passing through a few small settlements along the now bumpy dirt road. The sun was nearing its zenith and the day was waxing hotter. Both she and Martha wore wide-brimmed hats, hers black and Martha's of sweet straw, secured with gauzy scarves. Thus chapeauxed, they were shaded from the direct rays of the sun and a light breeze blowing from the ocean kept the humid air from becoming unbearable. After two hours, they stopped to stretch their legs and rest the horses. For Isabelle, the break was a welcomed relief, as she believed a few more miles along the rough dirt road would have shaken her teeth from her head. She found her posterior more than a little sore and was glad to walk off the stiffness that had settled into her lower back and legs. For the space of half an hour, they sat on a blanket under a large oak and ate the lunch Martha had prepared that morning, sharing their meal with a grateful driver, and then were off again. The trip having become monotonous, and with her tummy full, Lucy leaned against her mother and napped until they reached the lush woods that marked the outer boundary of Storybrooke, Maine.

Isabelle had never been in this modest little town. Her solicitor, Mr. Shelton, had suggested it when she had inquired of him a suitable place to move to several weeks ago. He had summered here as a child, and still had relations living hereabouts. She had accepted his suggestion, and he had made her travel arrangements for her, securing her rooms at his cousin's boarding house in the heart of town. He had even opened an account for her at the local bank, depositing her meager inheritance and arranging for monthly deposits of her income from Gerald's interests. He had been suspicious that Mr. La Fou had been instrumental in her father's bankruptcy, although he couldn't prove it, and was determined that her funds be secured against any future tampering.

Although small by Boston's standards, Storybrooke was clean and modern; it's streets wide enough for the passage of carriages, as well as the occasional motorcar. Most of the businesses along Main Street had freshly painted facades and a variety of goods and services were available. The people she passed appeared friendly and respectable. The road continued near the port, where every imaginable type of fishing vessels and cargo ships were moored to a series of docks. A large cannery dominated the port area. As their drive continued, Isabelle grew more and more pleased by the variety of shops and businesses in the little hamlet, but her breath caught in her throat as they entered the town center. On the corner, facing the courthouse, stood an elegant Victorian-style building, newly erected, upon which a large clock was affixed. The clock face could be seen for a great distance and gave the town a very stylish and practical way to mark the passing of each hour. The clock tower she thought was wonderful, but below that was a sign declaring the building beneath to be a library! Ever a lover of books and learning, Isabelle took this unexpected discovery as a sign that she had chosen her new life very well.

Almost immediately, the driver pulled the team to a halt before a lovely, white, two-story house just off of the main square. A white picket fence surrounded a small, grassy yard, and red rose bushes stood in rigid lines on the opposite side of the pickets, as if keeping vigil for the owner. A narrow cobblestone pathway led through the little gate and up to the steps to the house. Mounted on the gate was affixed a black and white sign, alerting the newcomers that this was the Lucas Boarding House, their long awaited destination on this journey. Isabelle instructed Lucy to stay near the wagon with Martha, and then briskly traversed the cobblestones, up the steps and to the threshold of the house. She knocked and waited for only a few moments before the door was opened and she found herself looking at a woman of approximately sixty years of age, white haired and a bit portly, her stern green eyes peering through spectacles.

"Hello," Isabelle said, offering her hand in greeting. "I'm Isabelle Mills. Mr. Shelton made reservations for me several weeks ago."

Taking her hand and shaking it, the woman smiled and nodded, "Of course. I'm Mrs. Lucas. I've been expecting you." She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. "That will be your little girl and Miss Potts with John by the wagon?" Isabelle nodded. "That's just fine. I have two very nice rooms ready for you, right at the top of the stairs." She directed her attention to the driver. "John, you get Jack and Billy to help you bring those trunks upstairs, the first two rooms on the right." Smiling, she turned back to Isabelle, who beckoned Martha and Lucy to join them.

"Just step inside Mrs. Mills and we can get you registered." Mrs. Lucas led them through the door and to the right of the foyer. The interior was as starch and direct as the owner. The walls had been recently papered with a small, red floral pattern running vertically between thin, navy stripes on a white background. A sitting area to the left was filled with a variety of chairs and sofas covered in navy or white fabrics, set around a low oak table. A mantle sporting a vase of garden flowers of varying hues occupied the far wall, giving the room a warm, cozy atmosphere. From where she stood, Isabelle could see a large dining room with blue paint and at least a dozen chairs surrounding a gigantic cloth-covered table. It was simple and homey and Isabelle was only too happy to sign the registry and pay for a weeks lodging.

As the trunks were being secured, Mrs. Lucas took the opportunity to show them where to find the kitchen and dining room, how to access the outdoor garden, and the location of the washroom. She then led them upstairs and left them to settle in, advising them that dinner would be served two hours hence.

Martha retired to her own room to unpack leaving Isabelle and Lucy to settle in for themselves. Their room was quite lovely, papered with a cream colored paper with lavender prints of wisteria and violets. On the North wall, opposite of the door, stood a double bed with a wrought-iron frame of white-enameled floral patterns covered with a hand-made patchwork quilt of browns, lavenders and golds. An oak dresser and wardrobe occupied one wall of the room, their packed trunks stacked near them to be unpacked. In the corner stood an oak washstand holding a large basin and pitcher painted with large yellow roses and butterflies, furnished with several crisp white towels and washcloths. Isabelle was delighted to see the room also had a small, low tea table, covered with a lace cloth and topped with a clear, unadorned hurricane lamp, flanked between two hardback chairs. Fresh, floral scented air wafted through the curtains of a large window, scattering about the room a golden light from outside.

Sighing, Isabelle pulled a lace panel aside and leaned against the pane, gazing out on a manicured lawn of freshly mowed grass and crimson rosebushes. She could just see a patch of the busy street in front of the house, could hear the crisp melody of children playing, horses clipping across the cobble-stoned roadway and townspeople bustling about visiting or running errands. Above was a bright, clear sky of deepening blue and bands of gulls winged toward the town as the afternoon sun heralded the coming evening. She imagined she could hear the sound of the sea itself sighing restlessly, soothingly in the din of the tune the busy town hummed to her.

"Mama, where's my Emily?" Lucy asked about her doll, breaking the spell of Isabelle's reverie.

Stepping across the room, Isabelle began rolling up her sleeves. "I'm sure we put her the case with the brushes and hair ribbons." She moved a stack of hatboxes, uncovering a two-foot brown leather case with a pacing strap on it. Lifting it, she carried it to the bed and unfastened the buckles on the strap. Meanwhile, Lucy removed her shoes and climbed up on the bed, settling beside the case as her mother opened it. Reaching inside, Isabelle removed an over-loved and much worn rag baby with a smiling, embroidered face, braids of brown yarn and a blue gingham dress. "Here she is, darling," she said, handing the doll to its eager little "mother."

"She's hot!"

"Of course she is," Isabelle laughed. "She's been traveling in a trunk all day. Why don't you set her on the pillow and you can arrange these ribbons in the top drawer of the bureau.

While Lucy set about her task, Isabelle quickly unpacked the trunk they had designated for their first week. She unfolded and smoothed over three black skirts and matching jackets, her "widow's weeds," since she was still, technically, in mourning for Gerald. She arranged them on wire hangers and hung them in the wardrobe. Next to them, she hung three blouses: two white and one dark blue, each with high button collars and long, puffed sleeves. Next to these she hung Lucy's dresses: one of brown and black gingham, one of blue broadcloth and one a dark green cotton with tiny pink, yellow and blue flowers. She placed a stack of folded white pinafores that Lucy wore over the dresses on the floor of the wardrobe and closed the door. At the bottom of the trunk were their combined undergarments and stockings, and these she transferred to a couple of drawers in the bureau. She and Lucy would wear their current boots during the week it would take her to locate and secure a residence, so she left the remaining trunks stacked neatly against the wall.

After moistening a cloth in the basin, she took a seat on one of the hardback chairs near the tea table. "Lucy, bring me a brush from the bureau." The child eagerly sought, and then brought, the brush to her mother. Isabelle used the cloth to wash the road dust from Lucy's face, then turned her around and untied the blue ribbons securing her braided hair. She ran her fingers through Lucy's thick, brown tresses, loosening the plaits. Next, she worked the brush through the child's hair, starting with the ends and moving upward, loosening tangles as she went, and then finally, brushing in long strokes from the crown to the ends of the now silky strands. She used the brush to gather sections of her hair from the temples and forehead, leaving the back of her hair long and loose, and tying the top hairs together in a ponytail with one of the blue ribbons. Lucy left her to play with Emily until they were to go down to dinner.

Taking up the still damp cloth from the table, Isabelle wiped her own face, the cloth cool and soothing on her skin. She rubbed the cloth across her throat and the back of her neck, her eyes closed. Returning the cloth back on the table, she leaned against the chair, the tall back supporting her head and shoulders. Keeping her eyes closed, she breathed in and out, in and out, slowly relaxing in the quiet room. Evening was descending on the first day of her independence, the first day of peace and hope she had experienced in many long and trying years. She had no fear of what tomorrow would bring, what obstacles may lay in her path: she didn't know what future lay before her, but she knew what the past had been. It had been like being locked in a cold and barren room, away from any comfort or interactions, with only a small window to gaze through, to hope and dream through. She had lost her family, her connections, her wealth and her naivety; but she still had her indomitable spirit, her intellect, her daughter and her friend.

Smiling tranquilly, Isabelle again absorbed the sounds and fragrances caressing her through the open window. She could smell the roast and pumpkin pie cooking downstairs mingled with the earthiness of the town outside; taste the saltiness of the sea mingled with the sweetness of the roses; hear the muffled sounds of the streets and the faint cries of gulls; feel the gentle coolness of the breeze coming off the waves and on to the shore. _She felt weightless, her consciousness floating on a vision of the shore at sunset, the suns amber, pink and purple rays dancing on a turquoise sea roiling rhythmically back and forth, back and forth. Foamy bubbles of salty water cascaded over her bare ankles, tugging the gritty grains of sand beneath the balls of her feet before scurrying back into the restless ocean. Gulls floated overhead as she traversed the hazy shoreline, a contentment enveloping her. She was searching for someone, felt sure he was here, searching for her as well. Raising her hand to her brow and squinting, she narrowed her field of vision, looked further than she could have with earthly eyes into the gathering fog ahead. A few more steps forward and there, just ahead and striding steadily toward her he came. His swaggering stride was confident and he swung his arms purposefully; he moved with grace, the surefootedness of one accustomed to holding steady on tumultuous decks over rough seas. He was slight of build, clad in the breeches and coat of a seafarer, wearing a white, turtleneck shirt and a captain's saucer cap. His bearded face was lined and weatherworn, his mouth determined, as he continued toward her. Resting her gaze upon his face, she ceased to feel herself striding along the sandy beachfront. His brown, expressive eyes called to her, grounded her. She felt for the first time in her life that she had really been seen, been heard, been known. In another moment, they came together, the sea and surf and sky and earth fading as she beheld him a breath away. He raised his hand, caressed her face intimately, and sighed contentedly. _

_"Ye have come at last, Belle-of-mine," he whispered, drawing her closer. Still looking into his fathomless eyes, she raised her lips to his._

"Miss, it's time to go down to supper."

Isabelle started, her heart pounding as she opened her eyes, the sweet vision vanishing. The shadows in the room were lengthening and Lucy was opening the door to Martha.

"I'm sorry, Miss, did I frighten you?"

Shaking her head and placing her small hand over her heart, Isabelle laughed breathily. "It's alright, Martha. I seemed to have dozed off."

Smiling, Martha offered, "Well, it's been a long day."

Isabelle rose to her feet, brushed a few creases out of her skirt and, taking Lucy's hand, went down to dinner.


	4. Chapter 4

WARNING: Mention of suicide.

**Chapter 3: Deciding Her Own Fate**

The morning greeted Isabelle with sunlight and promise. Having met Mrs. Lucas' other boarders the night before, she, Martha and Lucy broke fast with friendly faces and pleasant conversation. In the dining room, two rectangular tables set end to end, covered with a long, seamless tablecloth, cut from a single bolt of muslin fabric, giving it the appearance of being one long table. Three lazy-susans made of stained oak divided the table into thirds, and upon these were heaped a simple and hearty spread: scrambled eggs, biscuits, ham, sliced fruit, oatmeal and muffins, with freshly squeezed orange juice, mugs of strong coffee and hot, steeped tea. Mrs. Lucas produced a cup of fresh, cold milk for Lucy, and Isabelle thanked her for her thoughtfulness. The table had been set with a mix of old white china and blue willowware, with mismatched cups and utensils. Used to dining in strict formality at all meals, the little family found the casual setting, friendly banter and plain fare to be uplifting and fun.

The table could easily accommodate a dozen people, and nearly that many occupied the room now. Mrs. Lucas sat at the foot of the table, nearest the kitchen, and at the head of the table was an empty chair. Curiously, a full place setting had been set before it, as it had the night before. Isabelle, Lucy and Martha sat to the right of their hostess, their backs against the inner wall of the house, giving them a view behind their companions of the street outside of the curtained windows. Walter and Agnes Clarke, a pair of newlyweds from a nearby settlement, sat down from them, and opposite them were Avery Hatten the haberdasher, and Dodson Goode, the bakers' apprentice. On the end across from Isabelle were Sally Anders and Marian Crumb, teachers at the Storybrooke school, and Felton Glass, a "cub" reporter for the local paper, The Mirror.

Gazing appreciatively at the feast laid out before them, Martha complimented the older woman, "Mrs. Lucas, this is all so beautiful, and so good!"

"Yes," drawled Agnes, "I'm afraid you'll spoil us!"

Mrs. Lucas smiled. "Not at all," she replied. "I always make a large breakfast to take the boarders through the day. Lunch is pretty light fare around here." She smiled and passed a basket of blueberry muffins to Mr. Glass. "Most folks are too busy to come home before evening, so I fill them up in the morning."

Hatten toasted the kind lady appreciatively with a mug of coffee, and then hastily wiped his mouth with his napkin, laying it on his plate as he rose and hurried out the door to open his shop. That action started the others who had to rush off to work, and a clamor rose for a few moments as all of the men except Clarke made hasty exits. Sally and Marian rose and began collecting the scattered dishes to take to the kitchen, as they paid for their board with housekeeping chores during the summer months when school was out. Talk settled between Mrs. Lucas and the "temporary" guests as they finished eating, and they discovered that Walter Clarke had completed apothecary training and planned to open a shop in the tiny town.

"It's a good thing I married a pharmacist," Agnes laughed, "I'm so plagued with allergies that folks back home always called me 'Sneezey!'"

They all laughed pleasantly at her jest. Lucy, always inquisitive, turned to Mrs. Lucas and asked, "Who is the chair at the end for?"

Mrs. Lucas smiled sadly and answered, "Why, honey, that's Mr. Lucas' place."

"Oh." The child thought for a moment and then continued, "Why didn't he come down for breakfast?"

"Lucy," Isabelle admonished gently. "That isn't your concern."

"It's alright," interjected Mrs. Lucas. Turning to Lucy she explained, "Mr. Lucas died a few years ago. I was so in the habit of setting his place that I just continue doing it."

Reaching across Martha, Isabelle took the ladies hand. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Lucas," she said sympathetically. She hadn't loved her own husband when he had died, but had sorely mourned the connection of marriage, and she thought it sweet that the older widow had memorialized her husband's place at the head of the table. Mrs. Lucas' ritual of setting her husbands' place every day indicated a deep love for him.

The older woman smiled warmly at the young widow. "Don't fret over it, Mrs. Mills. My husband was a fine man, and very pleasant to live with. I like to think that he's still here with me, just sitting across the table, listening in to all the things you young folks have to say. It keeps me from feeling lonely when the day has settled and everyone is off to their own lives."

Isabelle gazed gently into her eyes. "That's a very lovely thought, Mrs. Lucas. Tell me, what was he like?"

"My Seth," she smiled, "was a seaman. He had a fishing boast and a small crew. He'd get up every morning, rain or shine, and put out to sea. He'd spend the day casting nets and fishing these waters, and every night he came home to me. We raised three boys. Two are in Boston, now, and one wandered off to Missouri, all landlubbers, like their mother!" She gave a small laugh, and then said wistfully. "There's something to be said for loving a man you share with the sea. He wrestles with it and there are days it could have killed him, but he loved it. He finally retired when arthritis kept him from going out any more. By then, we had the house paid for and started taking in boarders and guests. He'd sit in the parlor, smoking his pipe, telling everyone who'd listen about his life on the sea. And how they'd listen! Young folks today are fascinated by those old tales. Seth died five years ago, but sometimes I really feel as if he is still here with me."

"What do you mean?" asked Martha.

Mrs. Lucas shrugged and shook her head. "I don't really know, Miss Potts. Sometimes I think I hear him come into the mudroom and take off his boots. Sometimes I smell his pipe tobacco when I pass through the parlor. And, when the sea is roused and noisy…sometimes I think I hear him call my name." She looked up at the faces of her guests, all sympathetic and a little astonished. "Don't mind me; I'm getting to be a silly old woman. I just miss him, is all."

Sally came out of the kitchen at that moment and began clearing away the food and dishes in earnest, signaling the end of breakfast. Isabelle retreated to her room to fetch her hat and purse. A bit of guilt had settled in her stomach as she thought of how much the older widow missed her husband, while Isabelle, though not glad that Gerald was dead, did not miss him at all.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The Storybrooke Savings and Loan was located on Moncton Avenue, down three buildings and across the street from the lovely library and clock tower. Having left Lucy in Martha's care at the boarding house, Isabelle strolled purposefully down the sidewalk, noting the shops and politely nodding to passersby. Within a few minutes, she was facing a blue-gray clapboard building featuring two large, white-framed windows with a brown door between them. The building wasn't large, and didn't look like any bank she had seen before, appearing to have been any number of waterfront businesses. It had a tall, rectangular false-front over a shingled awning that covered the entrance. A wooden sign painted with "Storybrooke Savings and Loan" on both sides was suspended by a sturdy metal pipe centered over the door above the awning. The banking hours were painted on the center of the left window, and painted on the right side was the name of the bank president, Horace Cogsworth. A bell hanging over the door announced Isabelle as she entered the building.

Having judged the building from the outside as small, she was surprised when the interior appeared larger than she had expected. The room was rather cool, the sunlight filtered through half-drawn shades covering the large front windows, as if the proprietor preferred keeping the outside world outside. Despite the rather common façade of the exterior, the interior appeared somewhat exotic. The hardwood floors were stained dark, absorbing what light managed to filter in. The walls were papered with dull white scrolls and curls upon a dark gray background, and the walls had several arches separated by bone white pillars. As expected, the room was free of any excess clutter. A dark, waist-high counter occupied the center of the room. Behind the counter was a bookshelf, upon which was stacked various blank forms and documents, and beside it a closed, solid door leading to a back room. A small gate located between the long counter and the wall separated the business side from the public side.

Horace Cogsworth, a portly man of about 35 with a fashionable handlebar mustache, was seated at a desk behind the counter. He rose as Isabelle entered and greeted her primly, "Good morning. I assume you are Mrs. Mills?" Upon receiving her affirmative, he politely offered, "Good, good. Horace Cogsworth, at your service."

He passed through the small gate and directed Isabelle to a black lacquered desk near the window to his right. Seating her on chair of deep blue brocade, he sat opposite her in a black hardback chair and withdrew an envelope and a portfolio. Opening the envelope, he produced several documents. He explained these had been drawn up to open an account on her behalf and, instructing her where to place her signature, allowed her several minutes to read and then sign the documents. These he now set aside to be filed at the end of their appointment.

Opening the clasp of the portfolio, Cogsworth offered, "Mr. Shelton asked me to assist you in selecting a suitable property to purchase. I have here several listings that we can look over."

Isabelle smiled and nodded her approval, eager to find a home in the small town.

He opened the file and selected the top document. "Now, madam, this house is in a prestigious section of town, but it's rather small: only two bedrooms. It was once a servants quarters to the larger house before it."

"No, sir, that wouldn't do at all. Do you have something a bit larger?"

"Of course," he said, placing the listing aside. He presented several houses, most of them befitting a woman of her station, but not her income. The next six listings were rejected. He drew the next document, glanced at it and set it aside on the pile of rejected listings. Taking up the next document, he began reading it: "Here is a nice little cottage tucked back in the woods by a little lake…"

Isabelle reached for the rejected document and began reading: _Victorian style manor with modern amenities, built in 1908; four bedrooms upstairs and maids room off of large, well equipped kitchen; indoor plumbing, gas lights, hardwood floors, well insulated. Set on one acre of land with rose and kitchen gardens and balcony view of harbor; _ Moncton Avenue; $3000, negotiable._

Interrupting the banker, she pushed the document before him. "I'd like to see this one."

Taking the paper in his hand, he gave it a cursory glance and then turned it face down back on the stack of rejected listings. "I'm afraid that house is not suitable to your needs. Now, as I was saying, -"

Undaunted, Isabelle again picked the document up and urged, "This house seems very suitable, Mr. Cogsworth."

Smiling condescendingly, Cogsworth answered, "There, now, Mrs. Mills. I'm familiar with that particular property and I can assure you it won't suit your purposes at all."

Growing perturbed, Isabelle countered, "Mr. Cogsworth, I'll be the judge of what best suits my needs. I insist on seeing this house."

Cogsworth closed the folder and slid it back further on his desk. He looked up at Isabelle and she noticed sweat beginning to form on his balding pate. "Very well, madam. I shall take you to see the house, but you'll see that I am right and you are wasting your time."

"Well, sir, it is my time to waste. I have a very good feeling about this house. When can we see it?"

"Oh, immediately, madam, immediately." Cogsworth rose from his seat and went to retrieve his hat before escorting Isabelle back out into the street and assisting her into his motorcar for the short drive to the pink manor at the end of Moncton Avenue.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Isabelle stood before the two-story house, which rose like a small citadel between the town and the forest. It was painted a rather earthy salmon pink and trimmed in forest green accents, set on a foundation of gray stones. The house appeared to have three distinctive sections cobbled together. Offering no supporting banisters, eight wide steps made of weathered oak led up the rectangular, central structure, two entry doors painted in the same tones as the rest of the house featured small panes of colored glass. To the right of the doors, a large window overlooked a covered L-shaped porch, devoid of any furniture. A small balcony, facing eastward toward the turquoise sea, was perched over the front doors and sheltered by a gabled roof featuring masculine accents highlighting two square attic windows. From this roof, center to the residence, rose a slender chimney with a fancy pattern of red-clay bricks.

To the left of the entry was a two-story tower structure, with bay windows on both floors and a "witches hat" type of shingled roof that rose to the height of the attic windows without blocking the view. The far right and rear of the central section was a three-story, octagonal structure featuring large windows on the ground and second floor, with the third floor presenting a rather secluded balcony. The entirety of this section could not be seen from her perspective on the street, but Isabelle surmised it must run the entire back length of the house. A basement of cold, gray stone blocks ran under the house, along which several dark and lifeless windows made it reminiscent of an abandoned battlement. Upon the foreground of the house were planted shrubs of varying leaf and hue, untrimmed and void of flowers, and in the background arose the dark expanse of undisturbed forest. Most of the windows were void of curtains, and light seemed to bend around the manor as if forbidden to penetrate the glass panes to brighten the dark interior. The incongruence of the house, the wildness of the untamed grounds, the lack of sympathy in the darkened shadows of the property converged to rebuff humanity in general, like some unwanted beast snarling at the entry of its lair.

As she gazed upward at the cold structure, Isabelle felt a warm breeze slightly caress her cheeks, ruffling the scarf holding her hat in place. The hint of salty sea and roses lay subtly upon that gentle spirit, drawing a smile from her perfect mouth. The fragrance brought to mind the strange dream she had had the previous evening of the seashore and the caress of a strange brogue in her ear and her heart warmed toward the dusky manor looming over her. Turning toward Cogsworth, she happily requested, "Come, let's look inside!"

Cogsworth, who had not bothered to close the door to his touring car, stared at her agape. "Really, madam, you must see the amount of work it would take to get this place ready just to move in!"

Ignoring his protest, Isabelle was already making her way up the walk. Cogsworth closed the door and quickly caught up to her, huffing as he climbed the steps to the front porch. Isabelle stood aside as he produced a key and unlocked the front door. Pushing the door open, he nodded to Isabelle and she stepped tentatively inside. The foyer was murky in the scant light provided by the open door and dust motes danced furiously at the intrusion of her little boots as she entered, Cogsworth in tow.

Hardwood floors extended throughout both stories of the house all covered with layers of dust. The young widow continued into the house at a stately pace, her blue eyes roving from ceiling to walls to floors, taking inventory. There were some furnishings in the house, all heavy, dark, exotic and masculine: several chairs that appeared to have come from a tavern; a curious, low table of oriental design with intricate woodcarvings; a heavy wooden bench and a sea chest; and, over the mantle, two great tusks of some sea creature crossing over one another. Several carvings of wood and ivory lay strewn about, as did various navigational instruments whose functions she could only guess at. Scattered upon the walls in no apparent order were a few paintings featuring such unrelated subjects as tropical birds, a whaling boat, a beautifully executed seascape and a rather quaint rendering of some foreign village. Several fishing nets, bobbins and a harpoon took up space in one corner. An old pair of black leather boots stood next to the hearth as if the master of the house had just laid them aside and would return momentarily.

They passed from the great room into the kitchen, which proved to be most pleasing. Although as dusty as the previous rooms, it featured a modern gas stove and an icebox, beautiful granite counters and oak cabinets and cupboards. The sink was a great enamel covered basin with a water pump attached smartly to it. Volumes of light poured in through the windows, tempered with the same stained glass panels the front of the house featured. The tile-covered floors were a slate-gray color and the walls paneled with polished oak, giving it a warm, earthy feel. The kitchen was neither spacious nor ornate, but it was well planned and no expense had been spared to make it functional, practical and inviting. Off of the kitchen was a moderate bedroom with a small water closet. The room was barren of furniture and featured stark walls, wooden floors and a large window opened to the back yard. A gas heater built into the wall promised warmth through the harsh Maine winter.

Cogsworth, growing more nervous with each passing moment, hesitantly followed her, his eyes focused expectantly on shadows and darkened corners. Throughout the tour he had futilely listed the various deficiencies and drawbacks of the house, all of which Isabelle turned a deaf ear to. She entered the dining room. The wall was void of paper or paint, simply plastered and left bare. The room featured a long, oak paneled table coated with several layers of varnish. Like everything else she had seen, it was masculine and functional. Strangely, the great table was apportioned one solitary, sturdy oak chair, set at the head of the table. A buffet built in similar fashion to the long table occupied the back wall of the room, beneath a large, grimy window. Upon the dust laden buffet sat a delicate, antique tea set. The white china pot featured a slender spout and was elongated rather than squat and featured a simple Asian pattern of a blue flower on a stem. Arranged around it on a plain tray were eight cups resting on eight saucers, and a sugar bowl and cream pitcher. So elegant and feminine the tea service looked out of place in this house devoid of lace or flowers or delicate sentiments that Isabelle loved it on sight and nodded cheekily to its presence.

They next climbed the stairs to the second story where they encountered five doors down a narrow hallway. To her delight, one door opened to a spacious water closet with piped in water, a vanity and a working porcelain toilet. A beautiful claw-foot tub stood in the center of the room. The other doors opened to bedrooms. Two of the rooms were void of furnishings, quiet as dusty tombs stock-still in hazy light filtering through grimy windows. A third bedroom had become a catchall for fishing gear. All were as dusty and bleak as expected, but Isabelle's inner eyes envisioned them scrubbed and polished, curtained and rugged, filled with beds and bureaus, toys and sewing, a rocker, a desk and bookshelves filled from floor to ceiling with volumes of books. She imagined wallpaper and paint and color and laughter filling these rooms. The beast of a house could be a cherished home, and she felt she was born to the task.

The creak of rusting hinges echoed through the long hallway as they opened the last bedroom door of the second floor. The room was shrouded in darkness, as heavy burgundy curtains, the only curtains to be seen in the entire house, barricaded the room against the intrusion of the morning sun. The only illumination came from the dusky hallway and Isabelle hesitantly swept into the dim sanctum of the master suit. The room was chilled and dank and the dust shifted in swirls as she moved slowly into the interior, curling around her like the fog in a darkened cemetery. Cogsworth produced a box of matches from his pocket and, having been in the house on a few occasions, made his way to one of the gas lights mounted on the wall just right of the doorway. The light from the lamp seemed to flash intensively and Isabelle instinctively flinched away from it, releasing a terrified squeak as her eyes met those of an unknown man materializing as it were from nowhere before her.

Realizing the lamp had merely illuminated a portrait hung upon the wall, she took several calming breaths, her hand over her heart. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Cogsworth! I had such a fright!" she apologized.

"That's quite alright, Mrs. Mills, I understand."

Collecting her wits, she now took note of the painted features. The portrait was large, a life-sized rendition of subject's face and chest. The life-like image had been rendered by a talented hand, and was natural in color and detail. The face depicted a lean man of about fifty years, weathered, lined and stern, with high cheekbones and a long, narrow nose, the bridge of which was crooked, as if it had once been broken. The thin lips of the mouth were set in a sardonic smile, the expression frozen between annoyance and amusement, and she surmised one might easily suppose one or the other depending on the lighting of the room or the mood of the observer. A captain's hat of deep navy was affixed above the face, barely made visible afore the dark and shadowy background by reflections of light playing off its surface, and a vague coat of the same hue traced the shoulders and chest of the subject, fading into the dark background. About the neck was a white turtle-necked sweater, the weave depicted skillfully and subtly. Brownish hair peaked from under the hat and lay in wispy layers just touching the shoulders of the coat, lending a certain softness to the otherwise hard face. The man's cheeks and chin sported a beard, neither wild nor carefully trimmed, with little flecks of gray just beginning to come through. Time seemed to slow as she studied the face before her, noting the character etched in the lines about the stormy eyes of the man who seemed to stare back at her. The brown orbs, deep as an abyss, captivated her, seemed to peer into her soul, holding and sifting her. The face was at once strange and familiar to her, and she tried to recall where she might have seen it before, why she felt as though she must know him.

"Who is he?" she asked breathlessly.

"That, madam, is the former owner of this house," Cogsworth replied. Removing his kerchief from his pocket, he anxiously mopped at the sweat beading on his brow. "Captain Daniel Gold. He had this house built and then promptly died in it."

Isabelle pulled her gaze from the portrait, her attention now on the banker. "He died here? How?"

"Suicide, madam. He shut up the windows, turned on the gas and asphyxiated himself."

"How horrible!" she declared. Turning back to the image on the portrait, she searched out his stern features, the half amused smile and the determined set of the jaw, the mesmerizing eyes. "Why would he do that?" she mused aloud.

"No one can say. He didn't leave a note behind."

_"Ha!"_ a voice echoed near them in the room. Cogsworth released a small whine, cringing away from Isabelle and the painting.

"What was that?" Isabelle asked.

Wild eyed with sudden terror, her guide whispered, "It's him! Captain Gold! He haunts this house, madam!"

Smiling indulgently, Isabelle returned, "Don't be ridiculous. It must have been the wind." Folding her hands in front of her, she addressed him. "I'll take the house, Mr. Cogsworth. It's perfect."

_"Nothing doing!"_

Annoyed, Isabelle said, "Really, Mr. Cogsworth, I've made up my mind. The house is wonderful, the price is good: let's sign the papers for it today."

Cogsworth, sweating profusely and shaking with desperation, began pleading. "Please, Mrs. Mills, that wasn't me. This house is haunted, I say! This is the furthest into the house I've ever shown a client before! Please, let's go now before something happens!"

Isabelle felt a hand upon the small of her back, felt it shove her toward the door. Drawing in a shocked breath, she turned toward the terrified banker, quite piqued. "Mr. Cogsworth, I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself!"

Suddenly, the room echoed with laughter, hearty and loud. Unable to take any more, the portly banker bolted through the open door faster than Isabelle would have thought possible, leaving her alone with the disembodied laughter still issuing from some unseen quarter of the room.

Alarmed, Isabelle quickly followed Cogsworth from the room and down the oaks stairs to the front door, the laughter neither diminishing nor subsiding as she fled. She hurried out of the house and on to the porch and down the steps, her heart pounding furiously in her chest. Upon reaching the grassy plot of the front yard, she turned to face the house, the laughter still assaulting her ears. Gaping at the open entry, she witnessed the door slowly close upon the opening, the laughter suddenly ceasing with the loud click of the front door. She stood still for a moment, short breaths matching the rhythm of her pounding heart, her mouth agape, her eyes fixed upon the closed door, her ears ringing with the sudden silence.

As her shock subsided and her breathing approached normal, she turned down the walkway to the waiting car. Cogsworth, who had already started the motor, exited the driver's seat and hastened to open the passenger door for Isabelle. She started to get into the vehicle and then halted, turned back toward the house. _I will not be pushed around_, she mused. Placing her delicate hand on Cogsworth's forearm, she said determinately, "You'll probably think me silly, Mr. Cogsworth, but I want to sign the papers for this house immediately. I mean, if everyone rushes off at the slightest sound, of course the house will get a bad reputation. But it's ridiculous, really, in the twentieth century to believe in ghosts and all that medieval nonsense."

Incredulous, the terrified man pled with her. "Mrs. Mills, you can't be serious! You heard him laugh! There's no telling what will happen to you in that house! You're in shock! You could be driven mad, killed!"

The statement buffered Isabelle's resolve. She was tired of people telling her what to do, where to go, how to live. She was determined to live her life as she saw fit, to raise her daughter and breath the salty air of the restless sea and make her way in this town, in the wide world, and no one would stop her: not her in-laws, not her modest economy, and certainly not a house that wanted to be left alone. Looking up, she directed her statement past the balcony at the front of the house to the bedroom housing the portrait of the impish captain. "I want this house, and I will have it. No one decides my fate but me."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4: Chipped Cups and Compromises

The week that followed the signing of the mortgage agreement was spent in cleaning the pink Victorian house and making it a suitable habitation for the small family. Isabelle hired Mrs. Lucas' handymen, Jack and Billy, to do some minor repairs, move furniture out and trim the grounds. The bulky chairs, walrus tusks and various chests and collections of nets and shipping equipment were hauled out and disposed of, while certain pieces were retained in an attic room, their fate to be decided at a later time. Martha tackled the kitchen, digging through cupboards and cabinets, assessing the hodge-podge collection of pots, pans, dishes, utensils, crockery and glass dishes, impressed with the sturdy, serviceable pieces, retaining most of them for the family's use. Some of the nautical items that had caught Lucy's fancy Isabelle kept to be used as decorative items about the house, and the intricate Chinese table was claimed by Martha, who had it removed to her own room off of the kitchen. The only furniture that remained in its original place was the great oak dining table with its lone chair, along with its matching buffet. Isabelle loved the sturdy structure of the dining furniture and declared that it should remain. The tea set she vowed was charming and wouldn't part with it under any circumstance.

She and Martha donned old work dresses and, toiling from early light until sunset over the course of several days, soon had the house scrubbed and polished from attic to basement. Windows were cleaned inside and out and the wood floors were sealed and waxed as they worked from the second story down. Isabelle removed the burgundy drapes from the master bedroom, amused to find the late owner had nailed them to the wall, revealing a set of French doors opening to the front balcony. To her delight, it overlooked a secluded area of beach and the open sea, and she discovered there a telescope mounted on a tripod. The rest of the room was scoured, scrubbed and readied to receive her furnishings and draperies. The portrait of Daniel Gold she left hanging in its place near the window, finding a quiet fascination in the haunting, familiar face.

New paint and wallpapers were purchased from local merchants, and before the week was over a harmonious blend of color, style and warm elegance permeated the manor. Light, which previously seemed to shun the house, now danced in its halls and rooms through spotless windows, lending a friendly glow to the polished manor. The fragrance of pine soap, lemon oil and beeswax wafted throughout the residence and the echo of feminine speech and laughter created a melody of new life where silence once brooded. At weeks' end, John drove the old flat board wagon up the driveway, laden with all of the furnishings Isabelle had requested of Cora. Couches, chairs, dressers, bureaus, cases, bedsteads, wardrobes, linens, lamps, house wares and framed works were toted into the house and set about in various rooms, Martha and Isabelle directing the location, erection and turn of each item. At the end of the day, having paid and bid farewell to the hired men, Isabelle, entered the house and closed the front door behind her. With beds and furniture arrived and ready, they were spending their first night at home. Home, at last.

The wind had come up earlier, bringing with it a bevy of dark clouds with a threat of rain. From her vantage she could hear the winds strike the sturdy house, but all inside was still, a cocoon of shelter and protection. Taking slow steps into the parlor, Isabelle serenely gazed upon the cozy room. The walls were papered with the subtle pattern of soft tans and gentle lavenders like she preferred. Her mother's desk and Queen Anne chair was just inside the doorway, on it's polished top a crystal vase of lilacs, white roses and ferns. Two black and white photographs of her parents in matching gold frames sat under the vase and stacked next to it were her father's black leather Bible and her mother's prayer book. Isabelle let her eyes roam over the room, taking in the brown leather couch and two armchairs of blue brocade fabric, arranged on a white rug before the cold hearth. A few small, mahogany tables laden with lamps, some of Lucy's nautical items and lace doilies were placed tastefully about, and a low tea table occupied a place in front of the sitting area. The walls were bare except for a framed silhouette of Lucy and several gas lamps. She intended to check the area shops for local paintings to fill the spaces.

Sheltering the room from the growing storm were the gauzy lace curtains that had hung in her parent's parlor, transparent enough to allow the waning light to filter in but substantial with memories of love and happiness. Standing in a room filled with the remnants of her childhood, Isabelle let the weight of the past eight years fall off of her. _This is what freedom feels like_, she mused. Smiling, she gazed a moment at her parent's likenesses: her papa's smile big and broad and jolly, her mother's demure and sweet. How she wished they were still with her, could see Lucy grow up. Letting her thoughts wander, she followed suit by casually stepping into the room, her hands gliding lightly over the furnishings and fabrics. A low rumble of thunder intruded on her thoughts, heralding the approaching storm. Walking over to the stone hearth, she drew out a few pieces of kindling and set them about the stack of logs that had been placed there earlier. Setting on that a nest of shavings, she struck a match and lit the tender. Gradually, a cozy fire glowed in the hearth, driving the slight chill from the room.

Lucy bounded into the room and told her Martha had supper ready. Taking her daughter's hand, they walked down the hallway to the dining room. The walls had been painted a pale blue, reminiscent of a noon sky. The seascape that had hung in the parlor now occupied the long, inner wall of the dining room, flanked on either side by wrought-iron sconces. The painting was a study of an old wooden cargo vessel tossed about on a murky, choppy sea, riding tall against grayish clouds and flashes of gulls in flight. Mounted on the wall beside the entry from the hallway was a small cast-iron bell fashioned like a ships' bell. Several of the confiscated nautical items found in the house now graced the walls round about.

Eight hardback oak chairs, each fitted with a checkered cushion for added comfort, encircled the long oak table which was covered with a snowy tablecloth and adorned with a pitcher of fresh flowers. Filmy white curtains, embroidered with twisted ivy leaves of white thread, covered the window over the buffet. They were pulled back with navy tassels, revealing sheer white panels beneath. The lovely tea set with its simple blue flower pattern stood vigil from the center of the buffet, and was surrounded by a lovely assortment of ceramic birds and some seashells Lucy had found on the beach. Splashes of flowers and lace lent the room a casual and homey atmosphere.

Martha had set three places at the foot of the table, placing Isabelle at the end with Lucy and herself flanking her on either side. She served up steaming bowls of hearty beef and vegetable soup and some buttered crusty bread. After they were seated and had placed their napkins in their laps, each bowed their heads reverently as Isabelle said grace. Having said "amen," she glanced up and noted a certain oddity for the first time.

"Martha," she asked, "why is there a place setting at the head of the table?"

"You'll have to ask Miss Lucy that, it was her doing."

Lucy grinned at her mother, "that's for Captain Gold, Mama."

Taken aback, Isabelle laughed lightly. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"Captain Gold, the man who used to live here," Lucy answered. "That's his chair at the end of the table, so I set a place for him like Mrs. Lucas does for Mr. Lucas."

Isabelle was stunned. She didn't remember discussing the unfortunate captain in front of her daughter. "Where did you hear about the captain, darling?"

"I don't know," Lucy shrugged. "I just did." Looking up at her mother she asked, "Is it alright to set his place?"

Isabelle looked to Martha who only shrugged. Apparently, Lucy had heard the captain mentioned during the course of the move and had been enchanted by Mrs. Lucas' tradition at the boarding house. "Well…I suppose it won't do any harm. We'll be glad to welcome the captain at our table," she conceded, "as long as he behaves himself."

They continued their meal, discussing what other tasks they had ahead of them over the next few days. The storm outside grew in intensity, drawing out the lengthening shadows, and a steady rain pelted the house with a vengeance. The little family finished their meal, cleaned the kitchen and retired to their rooms for the night.

Lucy had been put to bed, tired from their day of cleaning and putting things in order, and had fallen asleep almost immediately. Isabelle slipped into the library across the hall and, requiring something familiar, selected a copy of poetry by Keats to read before turning in for the night. She made her way downstairs, book in one hand and candle in the other, to the kitchen where she lit one of the glass lamps ensconced on the wall, illuminating the immediate area before blowing out the candle. Quietly, so as not to disturb Martha, she located the kettle and pumped water into it at the sink. She had just placed the top on the kettle when the flame from the light suddenly went out, plunging the kitchen into utter darkness.

There was no other sound save the rain pelting the window panes and the quick, startled breaths she was emitting. Glancing about her uselessly, she groped around the counter and located the box of matches. Taking one out, she struck it on the course side of the box, a flame flickering to life. She shakily relit the lamp and turned around, surveying the room. Looking about, half expecting to see someone standing beside her, she nervously smoothed her hands over her skirt and took a deep breath. _I'm tired and imagining things_, she thought. Resolutely, she crossed the room, picked up the kettle and placed it on top of the gas burner. As she opened the box of matches to light the stove, the light was once again extinguished.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose as the young woman suddenly felt a presence in the pitch black room. Her hands shook, scattering several matches about from the open box. Gripping the box in her hand, she gingerly crossed the room again, approaching the lamp one more time. _This is ridiculous,_ she chided herself. Her thoughts strayed back to that first day here, to the manic laughter that had fairly chased her out of the house. She had convinced herself that day that her imagination had been fueled by the strange portrait of Captain Gold and the superstitious fear of the nervous banker. Surely the storm outside and her fatigue were working on her now, causing her to mistake a draft for a spiteful spirit. She hated being frightened. Straightening her spine, she spoke to her fear, giving it the likeness of the face on the portrait.

"I know you're here," she scolded. "You will stop this at once." Relaxing a little, she continued, "Some ghost. Is that all you're good for, frightening a woman in her own kitchen? Well, I'm not afraid of you. Whoever heard of a cowardly ghost? Now that the demonstration is over, I'll thank you to not interfere while I make my tea."

"Very well, madam. Light your blasted light," said a very masculine voice from behind her.

Isabelle went cold, her blood coursing through her veins like ice water. Striking a match, she held the flame to the wick of the lamp until it caught and spread a soft glow about her. Turning, she beheld the very solid form of the captain. His unwavering brown eyes, flecked with determination, bore into her own shocked eyes, his mouth grim. His arms were crossed over his chest, his feet set apart as if standing on the rocking deck of a ship. He wore no hat, and his shaggy hair lay about his head as if he had just stepped in from a windy gale. He was neither tall nor handsome, but there was a rugged strength in his compact build, and his features bore the evidence of intelligence and confidence. His dark eyes bore into her, daring her to continue to stand her ground. Isabelle realized she was holding her breath, her mouth open in shock. Taking a breath and reigning in her dignity, she pulled out the kitchen stool and sat down.

"You'll . . . you'll forgive me if I take a moment to get accustomed to you?" Isabelle took a few steadying breaths, her eyes locked on her intruder. "You're Captain Gold."

"Aye," the apparition smiled and sneered, "I thought ye knew I was here, dearie."

Looking up, Isabelle smiled nervously and conceded, "I did say that, but I truly did not believe it. I thought I was imagining you."

The captain chuckled. "Are ye in the habit of addressing yer imaginins' out loud?"

"Not usually," she answered. She rose and closed the few steps between them. She let her eyes roam over his scowling face. She noted that he appeared to be breathing, though she could not hear the faint sound of air passing in and out of his lungs. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she could feel that he was as solid as any man. He was neither cold, as she expected, nor was he possessed of any natural warmth. "You're real!"

"Aye, that I am," he confirmed. "As real as anyone ye've ever encountered."

Determined not to be rattled, Isabelle drew back and picked up the box of matches, moving toward the stove as she spoke. "I'm sorry I called you coward. It must have been embarrassing to you."

"Why?" he asked.

Lighting the burner under the kettle, she answered, "because of the way you died."

"The way I died?"

"I mean because you committed suicide."

The captain regarded her quizzically. "What made ye think I committed suicide?"

"Well," she stammered, "Mr. Cogsworth said…"

"Cogsworth is a fool!" he stormed. "I went to sleep in front of that confounded gas heater in me bedroom. I must have kicked the gas on with me foot during the night." He smiled grimly. "Aye, it was a stormy night like this one, with a gale blowin' from the east into me windows, so I closed them like any sensible man would. Wouldn't ye?"

"Yes, I suppose I would."

The good captain had worked himself up. "The coroner called it a suicide because me blasted housekeeper told him I always slept with me windows open. How the devil should she know how I slept?"

Isabelle smiled brightly. "I'm so glad!" The captain looked askance at her. "I mean I'm glad you didn't commit suicide." Her brow furrowed as a new thought took hold. "But, if you didn't, why do you haunt this house?"

Grinning, he locked his eyes on hers. "I built this house to enjoy for meself, _by_ meself. Those plans don't include a pack of strangers bargin' in and makin' themselves to home."

"Then you were trying to frighten me away!"

The captain looked down at the small woman standing so bravely before him and laughed. "Ye call that tryin'? I'd barely gotten started!" He took a few steps toward her, regarded the pretty flush of her face as she held her ground with her hands on her hips, and continued. "That was enough for all the others. They didn't want any part of it, I'll tell ye that! Didn't even stop to weigh anchor! They just cut their cables and ran!"

"Frightening people is just mean," she scolded. "And childish."

"Well ye didn't frighten, did ye lass?" He closed the distance between them, looked down into her velvety eyes. "No, ye're made of sterner stuff than most; for all that ye're small and fragile."

Isabelle pulled her shoulders back and stood a little taller. "I can take care of myself, thank you."

"Aye, and spunky, to boot."

The kettle began to whistle. Isabelle hurried over and removed it from the burner. She poured the steaming water into the tea pot and removed two cups from the cupboard as she spoke. "Well, Captain, it seems we have a dilemma."

"No dilemma, dearie. I'm sure ye'll find something suitable in the little town below."

"The house is mine now" she said resolutely. "I'm the legal owner. I bought it and I intend to stay."

"Bought it?" Gold yelled. "Legal owner, be hanged! Ye and yer maid and yer brat are to leave at once, do ye hear me?"

"I won't be shouted at!" Isabelle, shaking with fury, dropped the cup she was holding onto the floor. "You can't tell me what to do! I'm sick of people telling me what to do! I will stay here, and you can't make me leave!"

At this, the Captain threw back his head and laughed. "Confound it madam, but ye have a backbone! Look at yer flushed face and fierce eyes! Aye, ye ran out the other day with that great, sniveling coward, but ye came back." Recalling the incident, he remembered how hopefully she had surveyed the dust and filth of the house, how forcefully she had argued with the portly banker about purchasing the house, how dreamily she had gazed on his portrait, awakening in him a need to fill the void his existence had become. He calmed and asked almost tenderly, "why _did_ ye come back?"

Isabelle look up into his eyes, resisted the urge to reach out and touch him again. "I…I don't really know how to describe it. It's this house. The moment I saw it, I knew I must stay here. It seemed lonely, somehow. It seemed to want me as much as I wanted it. It's such a lovely house and it's a shame to leave it all alone when it could shelter so much life. I suppose you think I'm just a silly woman, but that's the way I feel."

Her eyes reminded him of the sea after a storm. Tears had risen, but she had kept them in check. He found himself relenting. "Well, there might be some truth in that. I felt that way about a ship once; me first command." He gave her a wistful smile. "Aye, she were an old rust bucket with gear all afoul and a pigsty below, but she always sailed sweetly fer me. I can see that ye're taken with the place, fer all its odd lines and isolation. I designed it to be an oddity, sort of a dark castle meant to keep others away. It's a monstrosity, but ye love it. Well, that counts for ye. And ye didn't frighten like the others. That counts for ye, too. Ye may stay. . . on trial."

The young woman released her breath, letting tension pass from her. "Thank you, Captain." She smiled up at him, her eyes brightening to reflect her new mood. "And the house isn't a monstrosity." Stooping, she reached beneath the table and retrieved the tea cup she had dropped. Turning it over in her hand, she surveyed the damage and looked up apologetically. "Your poor cup…I'm afraid it's chipped." She held it up for the captain to see. "It's hardly noticeable."

Raising an eyebrow, Gold noted that the chip was glaringly obvious. It was an old set, one of the only things he had inherited from the maiden aunt who had raised him. He had stored it during his long voyages, and had retrieved it when he had completed the house. It truly was one of the few sentimental things he owned: but she looked so sweet holding it in her delicate hand, her expression sorrowful at such a small incident after winning a battle against the apparition who no longer had a claim to the object. Shrugging slightly and offering her absolution, he said, "It's just a cup."

Smiling in relief at not offending her unexpected guest, Isabelle placed the cup back on the table and poured tea for two. The captain sat at the table and took the chipped cup for himself. "Can you drink that?" Isabelle asked curiously.

"I won't leave a puddle on the chair, if that's what ye're askin'."

"Oh," she said, sipping her own tea, her nerves calming as the heat and sweet flavor coursed through her. "Well, Captain. I suppose you'll be leaving now."

"Ye suppose wrong," he stated flatly, setting the cup down. "Why should I?"

"Because of Lucy, my little girl. I don't want her to be frightened."

"I never frighten little girls," he said sincerely.

She stubbornly plunged ahead. "Think of the bad language she'd learn from you, and the morals."

He set his cup down hard, threatening to chip the other end of it. "Confound it, madam, me language is most controlled. And as for me morals," he shrugged, "I've lived a man's life, and I'm not ashamed of it. I can assure you no woman's ever been the worse for knowin' me."

"She's much too young to see ghosts!"

"And just would be the proper age, now?"

"You know what I mean!"

"Very, well, I'll make a deal with you." He leaned forward, his eyes glistening. "Leave me bedroom as it is: the color, the furnishins', the telescope and the portrait, and I'll promise not to go into any other room in the house. Your brat need never know anythin about me."

"But, if you keep the master bedroom, where should I sleep?" she asked.

Gold grinned from across the table, "In the master bedroom."

"But…"

"In heaven's name, madam, why not? Why, I'm a spirit. I have no body: haven't had one in four years."

Incredulous, Isabelle gasped, "But I can see you!"

"All you see is an illusion. It's like a blasted lantern slide. Ye can see me only because ye believe in me."

There was some logic there, after all. "Well, I suppose it's alright."

Gold rapped his knuckles on the table. "It's settled, then. I'm probably makin a mistake. I always was a fool for helpless women."

"I'm not helpless," she reminded him. Rising, she picked up their empty cups and took them to the sink to rinse out. Turning, she said, "Captain, one more thing…" She was alone, the rain still pelting the window panes and an occasional rumble of thunder intruding on the stillness now settled on the room. She laughed quietly, and wondering if it had all been a dream after all, she lit the candle on the stand and blew out the lamp on the wall.

Taking the candle up, she left the kitchen and made her way up the stairs to her bedroom. In her room, she quickly exchanged her clothes for her nightgown. Letting her hair down, she brushed out the long, dark tresses, letting it flow loosely down her back, then blowing out the candle, slid under the covers of the bed. The combination of fatigue and the rainstorm quickly lulled her into slumber. Just before sleep took her, she thought she heard a voice say, "Never let anyone tell ye to be ashamed of your figure!"

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

I wish I could take credit for all of the dialogue between Isabelle and Captain Gold, but as I could not improve upon the original lines from the script, I opted to use some of their conversation in my own work. My thanks and acknowlegement to the most excellent writers from whom I borrowed these words.

My thanks also to those of you who are reading, following and favoriting my story. I appreciate your reviews and comments. For those of you who notice hints at either OUAT, TGMM or Beauty and the Beast throughout all of these chapters, please let me know you've spotted them! It's been fun writing little details in to see if they are discovered! dmw


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5: Dealing with Storms **

Lucy huddled under her covers. A great clap of thunder had jolted her from a peaceful slumber only moments ago and now she lay shivering, frightened and alone. Looking around, she strained to see about her in the dark and still unfamiliar room. A sudden flash of lightening illuminated the small chamber for only a second; not long enough for her to get her bearings. She had been so very tired when Mama had put her to bed earlier, the toils of the day and the excitement of moving into her new home had welcomed sleep. Now, the raging storm outside drove sleep from her.

Fear replaced the shattered fragments of a sweet dream. In the rumbling blackness and wailing wind she now remembered with dread the stories she had heard of ghosts and fiends who lurked in the shadowy corners of old houses. She had overheard Mrs. Lucas telling Mrs. Clark in hushed tones about the ghost of a sea captain who was said to haunt the house Mama had bought and moved them into. They said he had committed "sue-aside." She had no idea what that was, but surmised it was something bad. They said his spirit walked about the house, laughing and thrashing anyone who went inside; that a terrible fate awaited anyone who crossed him. She hadn't given these things much credence then; after all, Mama had been in the house and hadn't told her these things happened to her. Besides, Mama would never bring her to a home where anyone would hurt her. Hadn't she moved her from Grandmama's house where people made her feel like she could never do anything right?

A rumbling clap of thunder accompanied by a brilliant flash of light shook the room, eliciting a muffled cry from the child's lips. Cold fear settled over her and as she listened to the rain striking the window panes and the relentless wind whipping against the frame of the house. Her heart was pounding in her chest and the child trembled, her eyes darting about in the darkness for the shape of some fiend to rise up and seize her. She wailed, "Mama!" as another clap of thunder thudded the house, drowning out the child's cry.

"There now, lassie," said a soothing masculine voice, "what's all this fuss?"

Dread seized the little girl, and she huddled deeper under the thick patch-work quilt, and began crying in earnest.

"Ah," the voice continued. "It's just a wee storm is all. Nothing to lose ye're head over." A moment passed as the mortified child continued to sob. "Well now, maybe a little light would be of help."

A moment later, someone struck a match and the candle on the bureau came to life. Peeking from under her covers, Lucy saw a man standing beside the candle. He was dressed in a dark coat and breeches and he had a beard. He looked like the man in the portrait hung in Mama's room and she whimpered in fear.

"Lassie, donna cry," he said, crossing the room and coming to stand near the bed. "I'll no hurt ye."

Unconvinced, Lucy looked up at the apparition standing solidly before her. "But you're a ghost!" she wailed. "You hurt people!"

"Now who told ye that, lass?"

"Mrs. Lucas said it!"

The captain shook his head indulgently. "Is this the same Mrs. Lucas who lays out a plate fer her husband at supper?"

Lucy, pondered the question for a moment before answering with a small, quavering voice, "yes, sir."

"Ah!" The ghost winked at her. Crossing his arms over his chest, he smiled and appealed to the child's logic. "Then Mrs. Lucas knows a thing or two about livin' with someone "lingerin'" a bit from the next world." He uncrossed his arms and gripped the foot of the bed, leaning in a bit toward the small child. "But, Mrs. Lucas was wrong about me, well, in this case. I'll no' hurt ye lassie." The child continued to stare at him and looked ready to bolt for the door. "Besides, did ye not set a place at the table fer me earlier this evenin'?"

Still sniffling, Lucy nodded.

"Well, thank you for that, young lady. Ye'd agree that it would be vera poor manners indeed fer me to accept so gracious and invitation and then set about to scare ye, now wouldn't it?"

Somewhat calmed, she continued, "Mrs. Lucas said you scare people."

"Did she now?"

"Yes."

"Well, she may be right about that," he conceded. "But, to be fair, I didna' want anybody in me house."

Lucy, now subdued, peered at him cautiously. "It's our house now."

"Aye, that it is," he conceded.

A great clap of thunder sounded outside and the child cringed against her pillow and began crying again. The captain sat on the bed beside the girl and placed his hand on her head, petting her soft hair. "Ah, now, ye're not afrightened by a little storm, are ye?"

"Yes!" she bawled.

"What? A big, brave girl such as yerself afraid of a wee bit o' rain and wind? This tiny bluster is nothin'. Ye should see a great Northern come up on the high seas." Wide-eyed and breath hitching, Lucy stilled and listened. "Clouds as black as midnight fill the skies, blockin' out all light 'til ye canna see yer hand in front of yer vera face. They bring with 'em great howlin' winds that'll freeze yer blood, and cut through ye to the bone. The rains are fraught wi' ice and hail as big as yer fist, all peltin' the decks and makin' ye slide to an' fro. Then, the seas rise up again ye and the wind and the rain seem like nothin' next to the waves tossin' ye up and down, tryin' to smash ye and take ye to the bottom!"

Awed, Lucy whispered, "weren't you scared?"

"Aye, lass, and right well, too!" The captain smiled conspiratorially. "When all of creation comes again ye, ye best be scared. But, ye canna let yer fear get the better of ye."

"What did you do?"

Cocking his head he continued, "I did what needed to be done. I had me a fine crew, well trained to deal with the likes of a storm. We worked to hold our ship together, every hand on deck securin' the riggin' and bailin' the waters tryin' to weigh us down."

"And it worked?"

Winking at the child, he affirmed, "aye, it did. Got us safe to shore time and time again." He reached out with his fingers and gently wiped away the tears lingering on her cheeks. "Now then, this here house is fixed solid to the ground; no sea at it's underbelly to reach out and suck it under. And, it's built of solid timber so it will resist any wind or rain that comes again it!"

"So, the wind won't blow the house down?"

"No, lassie. Ye'll no be hurt by the wind nor the storm."

Lucy considered this as that very wind and storm assaulted the house, biting her lower lip and looking up at him. "What about you? Are you going to try to scare us?"

_Smart girl_. "No, I'm no goin' to scare ye." She looked at him skeptically. Smiling, he leaned in closed to the girl, he offered, "I'll make ye a deal. Ye go to sleep, and no more cryin', and I'll watch over ye whilst ye sleep."

Lucy considered his offer. He hadn't tried to scare her, had, in fact, spoken gently to her. Deciding he was telling the truth, the child offered her hand to him, sealing the deal the way she had seen adults do. "I'm Lucy," she said, introducing herself. Taking the small hand in his own, he returned, "Pleased to make yer acquaintance. I'm Captain Gold."

Scruntching down under her covers, she allowed the captain to fluff her pillow and tuck the quilt in around her. He ruffled her hair and gave her a quick wink, and then crossed the room to the bureau and blew the flame of the candle out. The room was now as dark as it had been before, but the walls seemed now more secure and the wind and rain sounded less threatening. Another flash of lightening briefly illuminated the room, and she saw him sitting on a chair near the window, his arms folded over his chest and his gaze trained on the storm outsdie. His presence made her feel content and safe.

"Captain Gold?"

"Aye, lassie?"

"You're not what I thought you were. I'm so glad."

Smiling, a feeling of warmth engulfed him. _What am I coming to?_ "Well, don't tell anyone, dearie."

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Isabelle spun in front of a full length mirror on a stand in her room. She wore a sky blue silk blouse with a high collar and long tapered sleeves over a matching skirt that was fitted along her hips without being too restrictive, flaring a bit from the knees down. Her hair was brushed back from her face into a loose bun just above her shoulders. Smiling brightly at her reflection, she felt almost giddy and turned to Martha standing nearby. "Well, what do you think?"

The maid, dressed in a green gingham work dress covered by a starched, white apron, her white sleeves rolled up to her elbows, smiled back. "You look wonderful, Miss."

It was her fourth week in the house, her fourth week of living her new life. She had now completed her year of mourning for Gerald. Casting aside her "widow's weeds" in favor of "real clothes" gave her the sense of freedom she had longed for. Those black dresses had been like the weight of shrouds every day she had worn them, tying her to Gerald as if he were merely in the next room. Packing them away had felt so freeing, as if she had found the key to shackles hindering her from living, and she felt almost weightless in the light and airy dress she now wore.

In the past few weeks, she and Lucy had tramped through the little port town, meeting new people and exploring all of the shops and stores. The beautiful widow and her daughter were a welcome addition among the citizens. Martha made arrangements with the local grocers, and the ice and dairy suppliers, so that the pantry was now stocked with canned goods and fresh produce, and the icebox had a few days supply of meat, fish, eggs and milk. Mornings usually consisted of some household chores after breakfast. Around mid-morning, Lucy occupied herself in her room or on the porch and Martha brought tea to Isabelle's room, always in the lovely tea set that had come with the house. The maid ceased on the third morning to lend a quizzical eye regarding her insistence that she always bring two cups – the chipped cup and one other – to this morning ritual. She used this time to do correspondence and take care of the finances. Some of the time she spent speaking with the crusty apparition who shared the home with her, finding the interaction surprisingly invigorating. Daniel himself was not much for talking, usually stationing himself at the telescope and surveying the beachfront or the harbor, while Isabelle shared with him the passages from the many books she had been accumulating over the years but had never had a chance to read. He, a man of action, endured these moments with longsuffering, listening until something she had read struck him as wrong, which it often did, and he took the opportunity to address the misinformation. Isabelle, having a voracious appetite for knowledge, questioned and debated him until his patience was exhausted and he withdrew himself into whatever nether region he occupied when he wasn't in her presence.

During the afternoons when they weren't going to town, she allowed Lucy to put on an old dress which she had raised the hem on and escorted her to the beach. The little girl made friends and played with the local children, running along the beach, splashing in the frothy water that ebbed and flowed on the sandy shore. She and her mother collected buckets of shells, driftwood, sand dollars and other treasures cast upon the shoreline, carrying some home and depositing others in the surf to be reclaimed by the sea. Isabelle conversed with the mothers who accompanied their own children, and sometimes she took a seat on one of the benches along the sandy stretch, immersed in tranquil thoughts.

She loved the play of sunlight on the waters as it slowly traversed its course overhead. Light refracted on the restless turquoise surface of the deep, sparkling like a cascade of diamonds spilled over a bed of velvet blue. She had always loved the sea, had felt it call to her. In the years between her mother's death and her marriage, she had dreamed of adventure, of sailing over the abyss to foreign lands, to meeting strange peoples and marking distant shores with her small footprint. She had stifled that dream during her empty marriage to Gerald, had despaired that her life was to be one endless round of social engagements and family intrigues. Here by the shore, the endless motion of the sea soothed her and the salty air refreshed her. True, living in this little town wasn't the same as sailing to far costs, but being here with Lucy and Martha was more than enough adventure for now.

In the early evening, the two would return to the beautiful Victorian house to lend a hand to Martha, finishing the chores she had started and allow the maid time to prepare dinner. Often, she found herself tending the small vegetable garden in back of the house, or turning her hand at taming the wild tangle of rosebushes struggling to grow in the previously neglected landscape. After dinner, the ladies of the house bathed, and then read or sang together at the piano in the parlor. An hour or so after the summer sun had set, the house settled and each retired to their own rooms. Occasionally, Isabelle spent another hour in the kitchen in discourse with the Captain over a cup of tea before bidding him a good night and retiring to her room to drift off to sleep.

Today marked one year and one day of her widowhood, and her period of mourning was officially over. She had finished packing away the black dresses, veils and hats in one of her traveling trunks to be toted to the attic when the handymen finished the task she had hired them to complete in the garden. It was a beautiful summer day, the sunlight spilling through the open window and a cool, lazy ocean breeze dancing through the curtains. Martha left the tea tray on a low table and retreated to the kitchen. Isabelle felt the now familiar sensation that heralded the captain's presence: a cool shiver on the back of her neck. Smiling, she began pouring tea into their respective cups. "Good morning, Captain Gold."

"What have you done with me monkey puzzle tree?" he demanded with no preamble.

"Is that what it's called?" she asked, stirring sugar and cream into the chipped cup. Turning to him, she attempted to pass the cup to him, but he stood fast, hands on hips, and glared evilly at her. "I expect it's chopped for firewood by now."

Clenching his jaw he responded, "Hang it all, madam! I planted that tree with me own two hands!"

"Why?" Her azure eye stared expectantly into his.

"Because I wanted a monkey puzzle tree in me garden!"

"Oh. Why is it called that?"

"Because it defies the ability of monkeys to climb the blasted thing!"

"Well, there are no monkeys here." Placing his unwanted cup back on the tray, she took up her own, completely unperturbed by his attitude. "Think how much prettier a bed of roses will look there."

_Roses she said_. "I hate roses! I hope the whole blasted bed dies of blight!"

Sighing, Isabelle shook her head. Men, even deceased ones, were such babies sometimes. "I wish you wouldn't swear. It's so ugly."

"If you think that's ugly, it's a good thing you can't read me thoughts!"

Refusing to be baited into quarrelling, she teased, "You seem pretty earthy for a spirit!"

Daniel, unused to resistance in any form, was simply exasperated. "And ye, madam, are enough to make a saint take to blasphemy!" He noted her serene pose, determined as she was to wait for him to change course. "Blasted women! Always make trouble when ye allow one aboard."

Setting her cup down, she turned on the settee, crossed her forearms over the back of the seat and rested her chin on them. Smiling brightly, she suggested, "Captain Gold, if you insist on haunting me, you might at least be more agreeable about it."

"Why should I be agreeable?"

"Well, as long as we're living…I mean, if we're to be thrown together so much…well, life's too short to be forever barking at each other."

_What cheek!_ Still, her determination to remain pleasant melted his agitation and he caught himself moving toward amusement. After all, the tree _was_ rather ugly when he thought about it, and he had been quite drunk when the thing had been shoved at him. Abandoning his angst, he offered her a crooked smile. "Yer life may be short, madam. I have unlimited time at me disposal." _Well, that wasn't quite true, but it sounded good. _

She grinned wider, drawing him in with those fathomless eyes. "Why don't you say something pleasant?"

Lost in those eyes, he could think of a great many pleasant things to say. "That's a pretty rig you're trussed up in."

"Thank you, sir!" She picked up his cup and offered it to him again.

Taking it from her hand, he continued mischievously, "Much better than all of the ugly black ye've been smothering yourself in!"

"I happen to have been wearing mourning for my husband."

"Whom ye didn't love," he observed coolly.

Shocked, Isabelle's breath caught. Offended, she asked, "How dare you say that?"

The captain rounded the table and took the chair opposite of her. _Oh, but you're beautiful when you're riled!_ Staring unflinchingly into her stormy eyes, he said gently, "Because it's true." When she began to object, he held up his hand. "Oh, ye may have been fond of him, but ye didn't love him."

She held his gaze for a moment and then dropped her eyes to her hands folded in her lap. Worrying her lower lip in her teeth, she sighed. "You're right. I didn't love him." She raised her eyes to his, guilty in this confession. "In the end, I wasn't' fond of him, either. I loved him when we married, but I soon discovered that he wasn't who I thought he was."

The stalwart captain found himself at a loss. He had only meant to tease her, but now he had unintentionally touched a nerve. He was unused to being the recipient of women's confidences. Truth be told, he had had few friends in his life who would share their secret thoughts with him. Isabelle had acknowledged his observation was true and was silently waiting to see if he would pursue it or leave it. Here were uncharted waters indeed and, for all he knew, a colossal reef to flounder upon. This Belle was a strong woman, one who, no doubt, kept much to herself as she sailed her course. "Why did you marry him?" he asked quietly.

Isabelle rose from the settee and walked slowly to the open French door overlooking the balcony. She stood quietly for a moment, bathing in the warm glow of tree filtered sunlight spilling through the opening. "I suppose I thought I was in love. It was what I thought it meant to be grown up, to be part of the whole wide world." Looking over her shoulder at the man seated patiently behind her she continued, "Does that make sense to you?"

"Aye, it does. Ye're not the first to make the mistake in marryin' the wrong mate. With the right mate, it would have been quite the adventure." You_ would have_ _made it quite the adventure._

Smiling, she took a deep breath and then released it. _He understands_. She turned and leaned against the doorway, continuing sadly, "I thought I would find love like my parents. Gerald was everything I thought a husband should be: handsome and adventurous and confident. He courted me like he thought the moon was hung in my smile. After the wedding, it didn't take long to discover that Gerald had married my father's shipping business."

"Ah!' he interjected. "Ye're father was a seaman. Ye've the sea in yer blood."

"Yes. He built a shipping company with his own two hands, and my husband helped his family take it from him. After my father died, Gerald had no more use for me." She walked back to the settee and sat down, brightening. "But, I have Lucy and Martha, and a new life here in Storybrooke."

Anger seized him, a wave of protectiveness evoked in what remained of the man who stood before her. "Ye're husband was a fool, dearie."

Reaching across the table she placed her hand over his. "Thank you, Captain." Rising, she fluffed her skirt. "Well, I've no need to think of that now. We ladies are going to town to buy some rose bushes."

Rolling his eyes, the captain stood to his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. "Roses!"

Taking up the tray, Isabelle walked to the door. The captain gestured with his hand and the door swung open for her. Turning back to him, she dipped in a pretty curtsy and said, "Good day, Captain Gold."

He bid her good day as she passed over the threshold. Turning to face him again, her lower lip caught in her teeth, she apologetically offered, "I'm sorry about the tree."

He grinned widely and shook his head. "No matter, dearie. Ye were right…it was ugly!"

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Again, some of the dialogue here wasn't mine. Oh, and there really is such a thing as a monkey puzzle tree, and it really wouldn't be very pretty in a garden!


	7. Chapter 7

**Warning: Chapter deals with death . . . and continuation . . . of major character. **

Chapter 6: Desperate Soul

A cool breeze grazed the filmy bedroom curtains on a warm September night. Isabelle had been sleeping for several hours now and she sighed softly as she dreamed. Daniel stood quietly at the foot of the bed, watching her sleep. Her pretty lips were slightly parted, the hint of a smile poised on her fair features. The lovely azure eyes were hidden from him behind closed lids, but he recalled their color perfectly. _Ah, me dear, ye are so very beautiful_, he mused. Like one of those roses she was so fond of, but with the strength of a cliff upon which the sea slammed against in futility.

He had known many women in his life; had brief affairs at more port towns than he could count, none of which had meant anything. Most of the women he had known were a part of the life found at every port, the kind who supported their fatherless whelps on the coins gained from entertaining the sailors frequenting the taverns along the docks. They were usually good natured wenches, neither pretty nor bright, but some were fair cooks and offered a couple of weeks lodging while the ships were in port, as long as you had coin enough to "play house." He had played this game more than a few times through the years, less after he became a captain and duty demanded more of his time.

He had been born in a small village along the Scottish coastline, his name recorded in the parish records in 1866. His parents and older brother died three years later of influenza and he went to live with his mother's maiden aunt, Agatha. He had been all of fourteen when he had gone to sea for the first time. That sultry mistress had been calling to him his entire life, with her promise of adventure and prosperity, and he signed onto a rusty old cargo ship as a cabin boy. He never regretted that decision. He worked the torturous hours, learned to navigate the sea lanes and disciplined himself to follow orders. He'd survived monsoons and scurvy, injury and intrigue, pirates and unfriendly seas and unseemly companions. By the time he was twenty, he was a trusted and knowledgeable crewman. At twenty-three he signed on as an officer, and he was first-mate at the age of five and twenty. It was then he met Milah.

The daughter of a prosperous shipping agent, Milah MacGregor turned his head and captured his heart. Dark-haired and dusky skinned, at seventeen she already knew the power of her allure. He first saw her on the docks as his ship put in to Iona on the western coast of Scotland. She had accompanied her father as he met with the ship's captain and Daniel had been appointed to entertain the lovely girl in the interim. He had accompanied her as she walked along the dock, visiting venders and making small talk. She flirted shamelessly with him and he fell for her charms like an untried schoolboy. Their ships company wintered at the port, and he found himself her escort at every social event of the season. What he lacked in station was overruled by his reputation and ability. He soon found himself engaged and then wedded to Milah. In a matter of months, he received his first commission as captain of his own ship, a fine whaleback steamer, the_ Dark One's Dagger_.

The 428-ton barge was 193 feet long and 21 feet in beam, with a cargo capacity of 1200 tons. Over the next two years he sailed the shipping lanes between Europe and America, transporting spices, dry goods, food and commodities between the countries, increasing his father-in-laws coffers greatly and managing to spend a few weeks here and there with his bride. Christmas 1888 brought a son, Baelfire Rory Gold. Having grown up without a father, he vowed he would never leave his own son, so he gained permission to stay in port to work in management and enjoy the comforts of home. He relished the time he spent with his young son, but soon realized his marriage had turned cold. At first, he attributed Milah's growing aloofness and biting tongue to having become accustomed to him away at sea for months at a time and reasoned more time spent together would mend the rift. It wasn't long before he realized she had simply grown tired of him. Arguments erupted and Milah began to show him a side of her that he never knew existed. Always looking for adventure and intrigue, she found it in the arms of another man and left him, taking their son with her. To save the family embarrassment, her father arranged for a quiet divorce for his daughter and moved her and the baby to an estate in Glasgow. His fifth wedding anniversary saw him abandoned, alone and drunk in a tavern, his son and wife well away from him.

Daniel didn't want to flounder in his own juices, become just another ruined seaman cast adrift with no hope of charting the course of his life. He formed a plan to settle in America: to build a prosperous business of his own and then invite his son to get to know him, get to know a business he would leave to him. He'd taken the first commission available, a cargo run along the coast of Africa. Over the next four years he worked relentlessly, traversed every sea route between heaven and hell, banking everything he earned. He knew every port, civilized or not, every shipping company and cargo warehouse. When he'd saved enough, he prevailed upon his ex-father-in-laws sense of fair-pay and purchased _The Dark One's Dagger_ for himself, putting out to sea as captain and owner.

Most of his hauls took him between the ports of London and the Eastern coast of America, transporting iron ore and finished products. He got a reputation as a more than efficient businessman and a worthy captain, working magic in the shipping industry. He made lucrative deals sailing all over the world, and within a few years he was turning a good profit. Gold embraced his new life, lonely as it was, and found fulfillment in bringing success to his plan. Every port, city and village he had visited, every man he had done business with, and every glacier, sea creature and wave he encountered wove a tapestry of experience that enriched his life. In the end, it had been a good life, a life any man would envy.

After ten years of pursuing his business, Gold scouted for a place to live and chose the small town of Storybrooke, Maine. He promoted his first mate to captain and tasked him with carrying on his shipping trade while he began putting all of his plans into action. After purchasing an acre of land overlooking the sea, he met with a local builder and submitted his sketches for the manor. He had drawn the lines of the house over and over again through the past years, cobbling together all of the features he had liked on houses he had seen while visiting various port towns. The color of the house he left to the contractor, who in turn had consulted his wife. Well, that decision had turned a lot of heads! His son was now 17 years old, and he wanted to put everything in place to bring him over from Scotland, to offer him a prosperity he could help fashion with his own hands, to make up for years of absence. He commissioned a local artist to paint a portrait of him, intending it to be a gift for a son who had not set eyes upon his father's face for many a year.

The house completed, he used the rest of his savings and took out a sizeable loan to build a cannery on the nearby harbor. The town welcomed the new business. Fishermen from up the coast began bringing their catches to the new cannery, a few even moving into Storybrooke with their families. He hardly had time to furnish and paint the interior of the house in favor of setting up and maintaining operations at the cannery. Business was growing, so he built an office up the street from the dock. He extended his love of unusual lines to this new building, featuring a series of arches, the front windows offering a wide view of the street and the dock front. He could see the clock tower from his desk.

The townspeople enjoyed the promise of new commerce the captain's endeavors brought them, even if they found the captain himself a bit brusque. Never having been one to accumulate friends or associates, he conducted business and, at the end of the day, returned to the pink manor to eat and sleep alone: he made no friends and had no social life. He dreamed of the day when he would pay off his business loans and begin making substantial money. He lived for the day he would bring his beloved Baelfire to America and into his life. Twenty years after the birth of his son, he was near to his goal.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

It was a cold November night when he had returned to his house after closing his office. Heating a pot of beef and vegetable soup, he took a bowl up to his frosty bedroom and sat at a side table by the unlit fireplace while he opened a letter from Bae. He had had infrequent correspondence with the boy for a number of years, due mostly to his extensive travels and, over time, he had sent more letters than he had received. He routinely sent money to Milah for the boy's care, but he had heard nothing back from her. Occasionally, Bae answered his letters, usually polite responses that offered little real information about the boy's occupations or aspirations. Some months back, he had posted a letter explaining his new business venture and his intention that his son join him, see the operation for himself. He invited the young man to his Storybrooke home, in the hope of making it his home.

The letter he read that night was not the welcome news he had hoped for. Baelfire politely declined his offer for now in favor of accepting a commission in The Royal Navy, and he had already set sail along the coast of Africa to patrol Her Majesties colonies. Daniel sat in dejection for a while, nursing a flask of whiskey and fuming. Well, all that work only to come up short. Still, it wasn't a total loss, he finally concluded. The boy would know something of the world he was offering him, of ships and the fickle sea, would know how to command men at the end of his commission. He could continue building up his shipping business and the cannery, making it even more profitable when Bae joined him: not a setback, merely a delay. Disappointed, but determined to wait a bit longer, Daniel fell asleep in the chair beside the cold hearth, dreaming of his son.

He remembered slowly becoming conscious in his darkened room. Standing near the doors to the balcony, he was a bit confused as to how much time had passed or what he was doing, how he had gotten there. His limbs were sluggish, and he turned slowly about, surveying the darkened room, seeing nothing. Wanting to let in the moonlight, he reached out to pull aside the curtains covering the balcony doors. Odd . . . he couldn't seem to move them, but then, he had nailed the curtains to the casement above the door. He felt strangely detached from the moment, as if he were still dreaming: more of an observer to his actions rather than the actor himself. A faint light began to dissipate through the gloom, although he couldn't tell where it originated from.

The captain felt a prickling sensation as the light began to grow, noting how his skin seemed to have taken on a translucent quality. Interesting that he wasn't disturbed by this. He looked at the empty bed, the covers smoothed neatly as they had been the night before, and at the cold fireplace. _It's freezing in here_, he thought, _but I donna feel it._ He turned to the chair he kept near the writing table and saw himself there, his eyes closed, his face slack and bluish. _How vera strange_. He thought he should be startled by this sight, but he felt only mild curiosity, a sense of wellbeing that he should see himself in this manner. Approaching the body, he reached out and touched the still cheek before him, feeling the sensation along his own cheek. _I must be dreaming this_. Fear began building in him, driving back the sense of peaceful wellbeing associated with the soft illumination continuing to grow around him. It was then he saw the open gas jet near the man's foot.

"Wake up!" he demanded of the form before him. Grabbing the lapels of his jacket, he began shaking the body. His panic rising in full force, he screamed, "Wake up! Wake up ye fool!"

Releasing the man, he backed away in horror. _What have I done?_ _I'm dead! _Realization hit him, his heart turning to stone inside him. "My God!"

The light permeating the room began to swirl around him. The calm he had felt at rising returned, caressing him, and he felt himself relax. He turned away from his body and saw what appeared to be a bright center to the light clamoring silently around him. He was drawn to that center now, sensed it was a place of peace and repose, and he desired to draw closer to it. It was right to go there. He had the sensation of floating as he approached the light. . . here was connection to peace, a place to shed the drudgery of this world, a sense of family . . . _family . . . family_. . . He stopped moving. _Family . . . Bae_! Everything he had worked to give his son, to reconnect with him, to establish a place for his family, gone to ashes in one night. It couldn't be!

He now found himself fighting the light, resisting the forward pull. "NO! GET BACK," he cried out. "I'M NOT GOIN', DO YE HEAR ME?"

The caressing tendrils of light gently wrapped around his limbs, insistently pulling him toward its center and he earnestly began to struggle. He made no progress at first, his ethereal body having no muscle or physical qualities to deter the sweet and steadfast draw. As his anger and determination grew however, the forward momentum stopped. His found strength in his limbs, pulled against the restraints of eternity drawing him in and, breaking free, staggered back into the shadows were his body rested. Glancing down at the table, he saw there a ceremonial dagger he had commissioned after purchasing his ship, bearing the name _"The Dark One's Dagger"_ inscribed onto the curved blade. He grabbed up the knife, wielding it in front of him, threatening the source of light trying to engulf him. Planting his feet firmly on the oak floor, he felt weight return to him as if he were solid rather than spirit. Gripping the dagger, he held it before him and released a primal scream.

"I WILL NOT GO WI' YE!" he raged, "GET OUT! GET OUT OF ME HOUSE!"

Quietly the light receded, dissipating into the shadows and leaving Daniel alone, a spirit separated from his body. He stood trembling, poised for battle lest the light return to reclaim him. After several minutes, he relaxed his guard and placed the dagger in his belt, and then he turned his attention back to his body, his corpse. He had seen death many times in his life and knew the meaning of what lay before him. He peered into his lifeless face; saw closed eyes, grayish skin, a slack jaw. He had been dead for some time before his spirit had become aware of itself. How strange that he had no recollection of the gas filling his lungs, displacing oxygen and stealing his breath away. There had been no struggle, no valiant fight to hold on to his life, to realize his dreams or fulfill his destiny. Death had been rather anti-climatic, after all.

Grief seized him as he dropped to his knees in despair. He grabbed his hair with both hands as a great sob wracked him. For minutes or hours the spirit of Daniel Gold wept bitterly at the feet of the body he once animated, mourning the loss of everything he held dear. He had worked so hard, had lost all he had built of a dream to share with his son; now all hope of making that connection was utterly, dismally gone. Regret flooded him, threatened to consume him. In the end, Bae had forged his own path, was now embarking on a life that had no place for him or for the legacy he had built to share with him. He had no memories of a father who had nurtured him as a baby, but who had been unwillingly absent throughout his childhood. Bae would never know how much his father had truly loved him beyond the polite expressions he had sent him in too few letters. Everything he had worked for was now just so much dust.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Daniel existed within the confines of the beautiful Victorian manor, haunting the dusty halls in frustrated solitude. He thought constantly of Bae, worried that he would wonder at his father's sudden withdrawal, anxious that his interests would be lost and he would leave no legacy to his beloved boy and to the generations that would come after him. In the end, he realized that he had been so busy trying to build a future with his son, that he had neglected to forge a present with him. What a vain effort that had been! Within a year, his business properties were sold to cover the loans he had taken out against them and the operations he had filled his last few years with now prospered under new owners. His ship had been auctioned off to cover lost contracts and the crews' salaries.

He had heard of these losses when that annoying banker, Horace Cogsworth, arrived one drizzly morning about a year after his death in the company of a man he'd recognized as Milah's suave solicitor, Jean Lumiere. Cogsworth opened the front door with his key and lead the gentleman inside. Lumiere was as thin and agile as Cogsworth was portly and clumsy. The Frenchman proceeded to look over the property with an expert eye, evaluating the worth of the residence with a feigned indifference. They traversed the dusty hallways making notations of the strange furnishings and myriad collections scattered haphazardly through the rooms. Daniel materialized in the dining room and quietly observed them. He had realized through the few times other people had entered the house that no one could see or hear him, so he had no fear of them discovering his presence. _Well, what brings these swabs here?_

"As you can see, sir," Cogsworth advised the solicitor, "the rooms are spacious. A bit of paint and paper and some liberal cleaning and we should be able to sell the property for a tidy sum." _Sell?_

Looking around with approval, Lumiere responded, "Oui, the house is exceptional; a bit odd, but well built." _Of course it is_.

Cogsworth smiled thinly. "Of course, Messieurs Lumiere, you understand we are offering your client a very generous sum under the circumstances?

"Generous?" he asked, "maybe not so much, eh? After all, the house belonged to Lieutenant Gold's father."

"That's true," the banker returned, "however, the late captain owed much to the bank and we had to sell off all of the other properties to cover our losses. The captain left no will, but his wish to stake a future for his son was known to the Board of Directors. It was their directive that we offer the young man the choice of taking up residence in the house."

_They're offering the house to Baelfire?_ The thought of Bae living here brought a wave of hope and happiness he hadn't felt in many years. Even if it were true that the business venture he built was gone, just having Bae here would more than suffice for the loss. Perhaps there would be a way to communicate with him, to tell him how to rebuild, to at least let him know how very much he had always loved and wanted him. If not, then just watching his beautiful boy enjoy some of the fruits of his labor would suffice.

Lumiere shook his head sadly. "I am sorry, my old friend, but the Lieutenant wishes to decline the offer in any case." He drew the rim of his bowler hat in nervous circles through his hands as he spoke. "The young man had a very distant relationship with his father, knew him only through letters. He had planned to join the captain once his terms of commission were up, but the circumstances of his fathers, uh . . . unfortunate demise . . . has caused him to reconsider such a move."

_What? Bae didn't want to come after all?_

"Yes, I understand that a letter was found from the young man when the captain's body was discovered in his room upstairs," Cogworth offered. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. I guess the old boy read into it his son's rejection of all of his hard work and decided to gas himself."

_Gas himself? On purpose? What was this idiot talking about?_

Lumiere commiserated, "oui, very sad indeed. Truth be told, young Gold held a certain fondness for his father, if for no other reason than that it annoyed his mother so much. He was quite shocked when he learned the circumstances of the captain's death, took it rather hard," he shrugged. "As it stands, he would not be comfortable in a house where his father had taken such drastic measures over a simple misunderstanding."

_Suicide? They thought he killed himself? _

"I understand," Cogsworth sniffed. "The scandal of suicide would only taint the situation further. It's best to make a clean break of it and make a life for himself where he is."

_No, no, no! What colossal fools_! Anger replaced hope as he realized what was happening: his son had been told he had killed himself because he believed Bae had rejected his offer. "Enough of that, ye blaggard!"

Cogsworth gasped and turned to the Frenchman. "I beg your pardon?"

"For what?"

Cogsworth looked at him, confused, and then smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, sir. I thought you had said something."

Lumiere smiled. "I said nothing. Let's discuss my client's terms." He clasped his hand on the banker's arm and led him to the dining table where he set his valise down. Opening the valise, he withdrew several pages of a contract for the banker's review. "We propose that your bank sell the property for a fair market value and send the proceeds to young Gold in Scotland."

Daniel stood behind the two men, seething in anger, his temper heating as the seconds ticked by. Lost! All lost! Now these fools intended to sell his legacy to some stranger and just send a pittance to his son? And his son would be left to believe he had abandoned him forever? How ludicrous a situation he had found himself in! Seething, he turned his rage against the two men deciding the fate of his holdings as if the culmination of his life's work were of no consequence. Grinding his teeth in a grimace, he audibly growled and strode toward the two unsuspecting businessmen, his boots pounding the floor as he approached. Screaming in anger, he withdrew the dagger from his belt with one hand and used the other to wrench the papers out of the Frenchman's hands. Tossing the papers down on the oak dining table, he stabbed the dagger through the center of the contract, he hissed through clenched teeth, "get out of me house, ye blasted bilge rats!"

The banker and the solicitor turned incredulous eyes toward one another. Taking in their shocked expressions with more than a little satisfaction, Daniel began laughing maniacally. Grabbing his hat in one hand and his valise in the other, Lumiere beat a hasty retreat from the dining room, leaving the contract skewered to the table. Cogsworth, seated at the head of the table, had a little more difficulty extracting his bulk from the chair, but soon followed suit. _Aye, ye've got 'em on the run now, Danny boy!_ Still laughing, Daniel followed them purposefully down the hallway and through the front doors onto the porch. The terrified men clamored into Cogsworth's motorcar and left without so much as a backward glance. Satisfied that he had successfully ousted the unwanted vermin, Daniel returned to dining room to brood and read his boys' name over and over again on the abandoned contract.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The next four years were spent in lonely vigil over the pink manor at the end of Monton Avenue. Daniel sincerely hoped that his son would find it in his heart to come to him, if for no other reason than to settle the estate. He never came. Cogsworth, having the burden of disposing of this, the captain's final property, attempted to send a few men over to clean, paint and ready the place for sale, but Daniel had no desire to see anything touched and drove them away. From time to time, the nervous banker would put on a brave face and bring potential buyers to the house. It became Daniel's only sport to let them take a good look before "shivering their timbers" with his ghostly laughs and disembodied shoves through the front door. It didn't take long for the house to get a reputation. The town folks readily regaled citizens and visitors alike with tales of the disturbed sea captain who took his own life and walked the floors of his former abode like a monster in a dark stronghold.

His existence was strange, to say the least. With no body, he could readily materialize anywhere he wished since he was not bound to the physical properties of the living. He had no need for food or drink, although he found he could consume substances with no ill effects. Of course, he could not taste them nor, therefore, derive pleasure from them. He had no need for air; yet found that his ethereal body kept the habit of breathing just the same. He found that, in his "natural" state, he remained undetected even while occupying a room with the living, but with a simple desire to be seen or heard, could at any time make his presence known. He could pass through objects as if through air, or could affect them as if he possessed the physical faculties to do so. He had no idea how this worked, or what metaphysical laws governed these abilities. Neither did he care. Nor during these years did he venture beyond the confines of his residence or the beachhead it overlooked. He did not know just how far he could travel outside of the bounds of this self-imposed perimeter, but he knew instinctively that doing so would be at his own peril. This restriction kept him from striking out and finding Baelfire himself, and so he waited and hoped his boy would come to him.

Only two things disturbed him about his new existence. The first was time itself. He found that he would be occupying some region of his domain, aware, alert and attentive; suddenly, he would find himself materializing in some other region within a different aspect of time and space having never been conscious of fading away or of what state he had been in during his absence. Sometimes he lost only a few minutes, and other times he'd realize that days had passed without his awareness. He feared he would one day simply vanish, never to return.

The second disturbance, the beckoning light that had sought him after his death, would calmly steal into his lonely afterlife at times when he had drifted into a quiet sort of contentment, enveloping him with a longing to enter its tranquility, to pass from this material world and enter the next realm were times when he became lost in thought while gazing at the stars through his telescope on the balcony or while reminiscing of holding Bae as a young child. His resistance on these occasions not been violent as it had on that first night. He simply ignored it, stubbornly clinging to his current state and willing the light to fade away. As the years had passed and his anger had cooled into disappointment and then longing remorse, these moments had occurred more frequently. As it was now, several months had passed without the ethereal visitation.

The most recent encounter had come just days before the vibrant young widow had moved in. On this occasion, he had materialized while walking the beachfront on a foggy evening, feeling more like he was dreaming rather than experiencing any reality. There were a few vague images of caressing a woman on the beach, the experience lingering in wispy images he vaguely remembered sometimes. He had felt contentment in the visions arms, as if finally finding rest after years of frustration. One moment he was kissing the dream woman, and then she was gone, Of all of these experiences, this one felt most like heaven and was the most difficult to resist. Indeed, it had seemed as if the dream woman had herself awakened and been wrenched from him; otherwise, he would have been content to stay with her forever.

He realized he merely postponed the inevitable, knew it would one day the Source of the light would claim him and take him away to a place from where he could never return. In spite of stories he had heard where loved ones long departed returned to guide the dead to a better place, no soul came with the light to beckon him over to the other side. Perhaps he had no one there interested in bringing him over. For the time being, he had no desire to discover a reason to pass into this new region, so he stayed, firmly attached to a world that no longer wanted him. It was his purpose that kept him here, his determination to find a way to tell his son how much he loved him.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Now, he stood at the foot of Isabelle's bed looking reverently at the sleeping woman. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, the kind of beauty that wouldn't fade with age. Her skin like honeyed cream, her soft, chestnut curls, her expressive mouth and perfect sea-blue eyes held him captive, enchanted him in a way that he had never known in life. But her physical perfections were nothing compared to the beauty of her very soul. She was intelligent, able to converse with him on myriad topics, eager to learn new things, thoughtful and perceptive. She eagerly drew him out, his opinions, his history, and shared herself with him unabashedly. She was kind and sensible, a wonderful mother and true friend. Daniel had lived a solitary life, had been duped in love and deprived of his son; had worked and slaved away his years in a self-imposed servitude to a hapless dream that, in the end, had been dashed on the crags of a life cut short; had died a meaningless death and now lingered in a purgatory between a life of regret and a future unknown. He had shunned intimacy and friendship, had forged no meaningful connections. Isabelle was a beautiful island, calm, lush and nourishing in the midst of a stormy sea, offering him a welcome harbor to which he readily anchored himself.

He liked to think, had he lived, that he would have met her one day on the beach as she played with Lucy. She would have smiled at him, introduced herself in that forward way of hers, and he would have kissed her hand, feigning it to be an old-world custom of his homeland. He would have managed to be on that beach whenever she was about, would have worked his way up to asking her to dinner, managed to court her, to win little Lucy's heart. In the visions he made for himself when she reposed for the night, he asked for her hand and she gave it willingly. These visions stirred emotions he had long since pushed away, feelings of happiness, home and hope: feelings of love and being loved in return. These thoughts always brought with them the turmoil of anger at his senseless and untimely death and more. What would this young woman have thought of a man, old enough to be her father, entertaining such foolish notions? And what good were those thoughts when he was, in fact, beyond offering her any kind of relationship?

Yes, he realized he was in love with her, but knew there was no hope for her to love him in return. The reality was, he wasn't really in her world, the world of the living. His world was as far away as the instant that he accepted he was finished with this life that no longer had a place for him. That tide was coming for him as surely as the slow, quiet breaths Isabelle drew in her sleep. He had no more to offer her than he had to offer his son, but still he wanted to hang on longer, to be something more to her than an illusion to take tea with. He loved her and wanted to protect her, to earn her love in return: to what end, he did not know. He just wanted something meaningful to leave in this world and something equally meaningful to take with him. And so, with the rising sun stretching its pearly fingers through the wafting curtains to kiss her cheeks with morning, Daniel smiled and decided to do what good he could for her in the time he had remaining.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 7: It's Forever, Dearie!**

"Good morning, Captain," Isabelle's smile greeted him from the doorway.

It was, indeed, a fine October morning. The curtains were pulled aside with the French doors opened wide to allow the gentle day inside. Daniel had materialized on the balcony and was using the telescope to watch the fishing boats scuttling along the harbor and gulls hovering over the ceaseless surf. Autumn had kissed the landscape, consigning leaves of bright orange, red and gold to wave gently in a cool breeze. He felt a bit melancholy, constricted to this house but the sea ever calling to him. He turned his head when he heard Isabelle enter the room, their morning tea balanced in her hands as she pushed the door closed behind her with a dainty foot. She was wearing a white cotton blouse and fitted gray skirt. Her hair was pinned up in the loose bun she wore when she helped Martha with the household chores. She never looked lovelier.

"Good morning, madam," he answered distractedly. Leaving the telescope, he approached the railing of the balcony, leaned on his elbows, his hands clasped in front of him. Sometimes he thought he could almost smell the salty sea air, feel it caress his hair and face or taste its briny breath. He felt Isabelle come up beside him, place her delicate hands on the railing to share the view. Drawn to her presence, he stole a side-long glance her direction as she cast her own vision to the horizon where dancing waves met still sky. How full of life she was: no longer pale, as when she had moved in, but with a little color on her cheeks and her hair shining in the sunlight she looked positively radiant.

"You miss it, don't you; the sea, that is?" she asked him quietly.

Nodding, he answered, "aye, sometimes vera much."

She looked up at him sympathetically. "My father used to miss it sometimes. He'd take me down to the docks to watch the ships come in. It was so exciting seeing all of the cargos unloaded and the sailors from all over the world walking around the docks."

Daniel laughed. "I can see you now: a fat little girl in hair ribbons."

"I wasn't fat, I was skinny!"

"Just as bad," he shrugged.

"And, I wore my hair in braids," she laughed, "and had a thousand freckles!"

He turned to study her face. "You still have freckles."

She glanced back at him. "Aye, I've quite a few now that I've spent so much time in the garden."

"They're vera becomin'," he admitted.

Blushing prettily, she smiled and said, "Come in to tea before it gets cold."

He followed her inside and she sat on the settee. After pouring tea into the chipped cup, she handed it to him before pouring herself a cup. Isabelle loved this time she spent each morning with Captain Gold. She had gotten to know him, and now she liked him, liked him very much. He was her friend and she could talk to him about things no one else could understand. Besides, he was the most interesting person she had ever met. He had been all over the world, had seen far distant places and talked to people from every walk of life. When she was young she had dreamed of adventure, of seeing how others lived and experienced life. She had longed to experience the world for herself, discover the lives and views and cultures of others. People had always thought her odd to be interested in such things, but the captain told her tales of his life and his adventures and she listened with rapt attention as she sipped her tea. "Tell me, Captain, what kind of boy were you?"

"Absolutely horrid!" he boasted. "All lean and lank and into mischief."

Isabelle giggled. "I would have been disappointed to discover you were an alter boy."

"Oh, but I was an alter boy," he admitted. "The local school was run by the vicar, and he insisted on us knowin' as much about the catechism as we did the subjects. He taught us carpentry as well, sayin' every man should have more than one interest so's he could keep himself wherever he was."

"And, what about your parents?"

"I don't remember them," he answered. "Raised by a maiden aunt from the age of three after me parents died. She was a stout woman with a sharp tongue and a swift swat on the arse whenever I misbehaved, which I did a'plenty." He chucked at the fond memory. "Your Miss Potts reminds me of her."

"Martha?" Isabelle asked.

"Aye. She's a good woman and a help to ye in rearin' yer own." His smile faded as memories pressed him. "She didn't agree with me decision to go to sea: thought I'd come to ruin."

"What did she do when you left?"

Smiling fondly he said, "Oh, she probably thanked heaven there was no one around to fill her house with mongrel pups and track mud on her carpets."

"Did she write to you?"

"Every Sunday for seven years. I was at sea when she died."

A flicker of sadness crossed Isabelle's face. Ever in tune to the mechanisms of her lovely features, he frowned and asked, "What are you thinkin' about, dearie?"

She smiled wistfully and answered, "I'm thinking about how lonely she must have felt with her clean carpets."

They were interrupted from outside by the noisy clatter of horses and wheels as a carriage pulled up to the house. Returning to the balcony, Isabelle and the captain peered down into the yard and observed two women alight from a rented carriage.

"My blasted in-laws!" Isabelle exclaimed. A combination of irritation and dread welled up inside her. "What are they doing here?"

_Now there are some strong sentiments. _

Isabelle went back into the room, completely agitated. "Quick! Hide or – or go away or decompose!"

"Dematerialize, madam."

"Whatever it is, do it quickly!"

_Oh, this is going to be fun_. "No need. They can't see me or hear me," he smiled wickedly, "unless I want them to."

"Then _please_ don't want them to! I'll get rid of them!"

Planting his feet apart and rubbing his hands together he offered, "Allow me, dearie, I've had plenty of practice. Say the word and I'll keelhaul them!"

"No!" Isabelle returned, horrified, "You're not to do anything!"

"Well. . . Isabelle. . . talking to yourself?"

Isabelle stilled and looked into Daniel's bemused eyes, and then turned to face Cora and Regina, standing just inside the bedroom door. Behind them, Martha shrugged apologetically.

"Mother Mills, Regina," she said smiling. "What a surprise."

Cora stepped forward, a concerned frown on her face, and took Isabelle's hand. "We've been meaning to visit as soon as you settled in, dear. It appears we came at a bad time."

"Not at all, Mother. I was just having tea and going over some correspondence." Isabelle attempted to direct Cora to the door.

"We've come at tea time? How lovely, dear." Cora withdrew from Isabelle and sat resolutely on the settee. Waving a hand airily toward the maid, she instructed, "Martha, bring some fresh tea and cups."

Muttering under her breath, Martha retreated toward the kitchen and Isabelle looked at Daniel. He had an evil grin on his face as he waited patiently for the scene to play itself out before him. No help there.

"What an ugly man," Regina stated flatly.

"What?" Isabelle turned toward her sister-in-law who was staring at the captain's portrait. Glancing back, she saw that Daniel appeared amused, and explained, "That's Captain Gold, the former owner."

"Why would you want such a hideous portrait hanging in your bedroom?"

_"With that ugly scowl, you're not one to be talking," _retorted the captain.

Mortified, Isabelle looked between Cora and Regina, hoping they had not heard his comment. "I. . . I'm very fond of it."

_"Liar!"_ he laughed.

Regina stared at her with a raised eyebrow, "Well, if you want a portrait of a strange man in your room, I suppose that's up to you."

_Yes, it is_, she thought. Taking a deep breath, she turned to Cora, knowing the decision to come here had been hers. "I'm sure you didn't come all this way to criticize my décor."

"Of course not, dear. We've come to bring you some rather distressing news," Cora confirmed, patting the seat next to her as an invitation for Isabelle to join her. The invitation went unaccepted. Isabelle knew this routine, that Cora was about to engulf her with maternal platitudes.

"It might be for the best, all things considered," murmured Regina.

Planting her feet apart on the floor and folding her arms across her chest, she mirrored the captain's stance. "What news?"

Cora narrowed her eyes at her for a moment. The little chit had become a bit too independent for her own good. Slipping back into a caring façade she sighed and said, "It's Gerald's oil shares, darling. It seems there was some legal technicality regarding your inheritance. We found out he sold those interests to an anonymous business partner shortly before his death. The poor dear didn't get around to making an amendment to his will before he died." Tears threatened to spill over her lashes as she looked sympathetically at her daughter-in-law. "I'm so sorry, Isabelle, but you'll receive no more funds from the shares."

Isabelle paled and she held her breath. No income! She had spent all of the inheritance she had received from her parents in purchasing the house, but her living expenses were dependant on the dividends from the oil shares. Now they were gone! She took in Cora's smug look of satisfaction and Regina's triumphant smirk and knew they had somehow engineered the loss. Proving it would cost money she didn't have and the outcome would be the same: she'd have nothing. Daniel could feel the desperation growing in the young widow as she faced off with the two witches in her own bedroom.

_"Avast, now! "Don't make a scene in front of these swabs."_

"I don't intend to make a scene!" Isabelle exclaimed.

"Of course you don't, dear," Cora condescended. "Now, be a good girl and sit down so we can discuss the future sensibly."

_"Watch out, my dear! She' intends to cast a net about ye!"_

"I. . . I don't want to sit down. I need to think." Isabelle began pacing.

Regina moved to stand behind her mother. "There really isn't anything to think about, Isabelle. You and Lucy will move back home. We can live together and forget all this nonsense about living off on your own. "

"Living on my own is not nonsense."

"Besides," Regina continued, "the social season is in full swing and there will be plenty to occupy your time. And you won't have to take sole responsibility for Lucy."

_"Oh really, dearie!"_ Daniel tittered. "_Ye'd best make this harpy turn about or I_ will _take a hand!" _

"You keep out of this!" Isabelle hissed.

"Isabelle!" Regina gasped.

Isabelle looked between Daniel and her two in-laws in complete frustration. "Oh, blast!"

Cora rose abruptly, her face red with anger. "If that's what you want, you ungrateful girl, then we will keep out of it."

Sighing, Isabelle placed her hand on her forehead and said sharply, "I didn't mean you!"

"Then just whom did you mean?" Regina asked.

"I meant. . . " Isabelle turned away from her and looked a the captain, who appeared to hover between amusement and anger. "I could explain, I suppose . . . but you wouldn't believe me."

Mother and daughter exchanged glances. Taking a deep breath and once again forcing a smile, Cora slowly approached her daughter-in-law. She patted her shoulder and then slid her hand down Isabelle's arm, finally taking her hand and patting it comfortingly. "I understand, dear. First you loose poor Gerald, and then you spirit yourself away like a gypsy. I'm afraid all of this solitude has preyed on your mind."

_"She thinks ye've got bats in yer belfry."_

Jerking away from the older woman, Isabelle snapped, "Oh, pipe down!" Cora and Regina looked at her, horrified. "I mean, I want to think!"

Regina had had enough with playing nice. Maybe intimidation would work where kindness had failed. Crossing her arms she glared hatefully at the obstinate younger woman. "Well, I won't 'pipe down,' as you put it. It should be perfectly obvious that with your income gone there is only one course for you to follow: come home with us now."

Gasping, Isabelle asked, "You mean, give up my house?"

_Of course, you idiot,_ Cora thought. Assuming her motherly posturing, she said sternly, "Naturally. It was foolish and irresponsible for you to take it in the first place: and now that you're a pauper, how can you possibly stay?"

Daniel's voice fell softly on her ear. _"Don't do it, Isabelle."_

Turning her back on the two women, Isabelle faced him. His eyes were tender as he looked at her. "Do you want me to stay?"

He smiled. _"Aye, I do."_

"Do you really mean that?"

_"You've made a commitment, and it's forever, dearie. Tell them to shove off." _

Turning back to her in-laws, Isabelle smiled warmly and walked to the doorway. "I'm sorry. It's very kind of you to want me to come back, but I'm going to stay. I'll manage somehow, so," opening the door, she gestured them out. "please be kind enough to. . . shove off."

Both women gaped at her, their eyes wide. Cora snapped her mouth shut, at a total loss as to how to salvage a situation for the first time in her life. Angrily, she strode past Isabelle without stopping. Regina followed suit, pausing in the doorway to speak to Isabelle through clenched teeth. "You're insane, Isabelle, and I want nothing more to do with you!" Lifting her skirts she followed her mother to the stairway.

Isabelle quickly shut the door and pressed her back against it. She was flushed and felt giddy. I _finally told that old battle-axe off_, she thought irreverently. Laughing nervously, she called out to her friend. "Captain Gold!" He was nowhere to be seen. "Captain Gold, where are you?" Looking about, she realized where he might be and chided, "Don't forget your promise!"

Cora paused on the middle tier of the stairwell and waited for Regina to join her. She was furious! Wretched girl, so stubborn, so meddlesome! She was _not_ going to let her ruin all of the plans she had lain down! Taking several calming breaths, she waited for Regina to join her. No doubt, Regina would have given the girl some snide parting remark designed to shatter her confidence. All she need do is go back and pet her up a bit, talk her into returning with them tonight. She'd remind her that she could sell the house and retain some portion of the inheritance she had received from her parents. What would it matter a few months from now when she accepted a marriage proposal from the wealthy and well-placed owner of the _Coast to Coast Shipping Company_? True, Leopold Blanchard was quite a bit older than Isabelle, but he wanted a "woman of quality" to help him raise his young daughter and he had jumped at the chance to meet Cora's beautiful and troublesome daughter-in-law. This "merger" would advance the family business into an empire.

Regina joined her on the stairs looking like she could shoot fireballs from her bare hands. Her mouth set in a firm line, Cora told her, "Wait here, darling. I'm going to talk to her and try to work a little magic." Lifting her skirt, she placed her foot on the first step up and felt a firm tug backward at her elbow. "Stop pulling me, Regina!"

"I'm not pulling you."

She attempted the step again with the same results. Incredulous, she whirled on her daughter and demanded, "Stop it!"

Defensive, Regina snapped, "Mother, I'm not touching you."

A masculine laugh sounded from just behind them, startling both women. Unseen hands grabbed them each by an upper arm and forced them down the stairs at an alarming pace. "I've had enough of the both of ye!" said the voice, as they were summarily pushed out of the front door.

Terrified, Cora and Regina ran to the waiting carriage, eager to get away. Behind them, the unearthly laugh taunted them, and Cora ordered the driver to leave at once. Near the end of the drive, their hearts still pounding in fright, the disembodied voice was heard inside the carriage: "And donna bother to come callin' again!"

Peering from the front door and laughing gaily, Lucy and Martha watched as the carriage bolted away from the pink manor on Moncton Avenue.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Late that evening, Regina sat beside the fireplace in the front parlor of the Lucas Boarding House. Her nerves still in a jumble, she sipped a cup of tea liberally laced with whiskey from the flask she secretly carried. She had slipped it in while her mother was preoccupied with several documents she had brought in earlier. Although she considered herself to be rationale, she had been left feeling unbalanced by the experience at Isabelle's house that afternoon. It hadn't helped that Mrs. Lucas had surmised their otherworldly experience when she had seen their pale, agitated faces upon their return. Neither had she the opportunity to calm her nerves during dinner when the old woman had regaled them with stories of the ghost who haunted the pink Victorian house. Of course, the final straw had been when the good lady had informed her that the empty place beside her at the table was reserved for her own dearly departed husband. If it were up to her, Regina would toss the old lady and Isabelle into an asylum and throw away the key. She sighed. At least the whiskey dulled her senses.

She watched Cora by way of sidelong glances. The older woman tucked the documents she had been reading into her satchel and stared into the fire, drumming her fingers on the arm of the blue chair. She sat there for several minutes, the light of the fire flickering across her features, bathing her in a red aura made hazy by the amount of liquor now in Regina's system. Cora sat stock still, her angry eyes boring into the flame as if she could read the future in the runes of the flickering light. Without turning, she spoke.

"She's ruined everything," she stated flatly, no hint of emotion in her tone. "I could rip her heart out with my bare hands."

It scared Regina when Mother got like this. Whatever Cora was working out in her mind was better left to her without Regina's input. Deciding it was wise not to draw attention to herself, she continued to sip her "tea" quietly. Whatever her mother was plotting for her brother's widow would not interfere with her own plans: she was leaving soon and would be far from the fall-out whenever it happened.

Smiling secretly behind the rim of her cup, she thought back on the afternoon at Mother's face when Isabelle had ordered her to "shove off." Although she had bullied and hedged Isabelle in at every turn throughout all of the years they had known each other, she admired her determination to live her own life. It was inspiring. After all, in a few months, Regina would be secreted away by Dan Olstler to a horse ranch in Oklahoma and would leave Cora's plots and intrigues behind her forever.

They sat quietly for several more minutes as Cora thought and Regina descended into a dreamy stupor. Suddenly, Cora softly chuckled, and she turned to look at her daughter. Her eyes reflected the reddish light of the fire and she sat back contentedly. Regina knew that look from long experience: Cora had devised a plan to get back at Isabelle, to ruin her. She shuddered as her mother leaned back, her arms resting regally on the arms of the chair. She spoke softly.

"You see, dear, Isabelle has a taste for independence, the idea that she can make her way in the world without assistance. She doesn't know just how naïve she is, how vulnerable to unscrupulous men she can be. I have an old . . . acquaintance who I think could help with this situation. He owes me a favor or two, and I think he can manage to steer our wayward child in the right direction." Looking up and peering directly into her daughters dark eyes, she smiled knowingly. "After all, desperation is a great motivator for pushing one to make the right decision."


End file.
